


Fenris, Herald of Andraste

by tinktheloser



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, fenris doesn't like that his hand is glowing, fenris is very tired of this shit, lots of swearing on hawke's part, why is it glowing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-16
Updated: 2018-10-08
Packaged: 2018-12-30 15:09:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 26,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12111396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinktheloser/pseuds/tinktheloser
Summary: [Previously "The Anchor and Lyrium Markings Don't Really Mix" because that title was too long for my tastes]Fenris survives the Conclave and finds himself with yet another glowing magical thing in his body, and somehow this means he has to take leadership over an upstart organization he wants nothing to do with. Call him the Herald of Andraste one more time and see where his new glowing fist ends up (hint: it's either your ass or your chest. you know, where your heart is). Hawke finds herself in the odd position of not being the protagonist for once, and she's torn between relief and the overwhelming urge to get Fenris the fuck out of Thedas.I have no hopes in getting the entirety of Inquisition in this story, but will do my best to supply snippets every so often.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Because this got a decent amount of attention on tumblr, it's now a Thing on ao3 and I'm quite happy about it. No promises in being a responsible, productive fic writer, though, I have lots of stuff to do this semester.

Hawke’s heart pounded in her chest, echoing the rumbling blast that shook the earth below her feet. The trees around her shuddered, cracked, some limbs and leaves crumbled and fell about her. Bundles of snow slid off their banks and branches and stones, powdered by the disturbance.

She stared in the direction of the Conclave, eyes wide and stinging, mouth ajar, body strung tight like a bow ready to fire. A single breath passed her lips in a faint cloud, her grip on her staff white, tight, and both frozen and burning at the same time. A step forward, a tremble through her knee. Another step forward, then another more quickly, and then she was running, running towards the black pillar of fire and death where the Temple of Sacred Ashes had stood.

Branches struck her face and body as Hawke plowed through the forest, kicking up snow and stones, disregarding her earlier stealth for the urgent need to find her husband.

Fenris. He’d been there, observing ( _spying_ ), taking note of anyone interested in the Champion’s whereabouts. He’d  _also_  been there to get a feel for the situation at hand, of how the tentative talk between the warring mages and templars would go. The life and wellbeing of his wife, a mage, kind of depended on it.

Something warm trickled down her cheeks, chilling instantly and irritating the skin. Hawke scrubbed at her eyes, irritably, frustration and fear building in her chest, warring cold and heat pooling there like a vicious maelstrom. She skirted around a cluster of trees, jumping down a small cliff jutting off the side of the sloping mountain.

Hawke had  _told_  him not to go. He was too recognizable, and his safety was worth more than hers. But he wouldn’t be dissuaded, as he was at least as stubborn as she was, if not more.

_I won’t be there long_ , he’d assured her.

It doesn’t take long at all to be shredded apart in devastating explosion, as her personal experience told her.

_My fault, my fault my fault my fault—_

There was nothing to be done for the familiar mantra chanting in her head, beating against her chest with icy claws. She pressed on, ignoring the aching chill in her feet and her hands. Her face was wet with tears, sweat, and the condensation from her quick, hot breath.

Not soon enough, she caught sight of a village. Haven. Varric should be there, if his recent notes were any indication. The notes were few, now that he was in the custody of one of the Seekers, but he was a clever man and he found a way.

There were screams drifting from the village, wails of fear and horror as a chaos of movement bustled throughout. The shock waves from the blast had rattled the wooden cottages and huts, bits of debris floated in the air, ash drifted down like snow. The gates drew closer with each grating breath, each shaky step, but it wasn’t fast enough.

Hawke rushed past the scrambled guards, through the gate and into the village. It was a mess. A guard or two tried to grab her, an obvious intruder, but she easily shook them off—perhaps punched one, she wasn’t really paying attention— and lost them in the mayhem. She frantically scanned the crowd for a crossbow, a hairy chest,  _anything_  to indicate her best friend.

There, arguing fiercely with a tall, armored woman. His cheeks were pink with cold, but under that he was pale with fear and stress and worry, his brow pinched in frustration. The woman, the Seeker, was arguing back, her face a painting of shock and grief and  _rage_  it was a wonder she didn’t combust.

“Varric!” Hawke cried, sprinting towards him.

He looked up, eyes widening at the sight of her. He pushed past the Seeker, who whirled around in fury but  _froze_  when she saw who Varric was turning to.

“Hawke!” Varric responded, pushing through the crowd. “What in Andraste’s flaming knickers—!”

“Fenris was at the Temple!” Hawke all but screamed. She stopped short of him, her chest heaving—nearly sobbing—and it was all she could do not to fall to her knees. “He was there—he was— _Varric—_ ”

Varric paled, sucked in a harsh breath. He reached out and gripped her elbows, holding her shaking body still—as still as it could be anyway. His eyes bored into hers, searching for something, a lie perhaps, a chance that she wasn’t in the right of mind.

When he found nothing but desperate fear, he opened his mouth—

“Champion!” a woman’s voice interrupted.

Hawke whipped her head up to see the Seeker marching towards her, a righteous fury blazing in her eyes and bleeding from her pinched brow and the tight-lipped grimace of her lips. A burst of defiant anger bubbled in Hawke’s chest, but now wasn’t the time, there wasn’t  _time_.

When the Seeker was close, she hissed, “Varric, you lying scheming bastard of a—!”

“Yes, we covered that bit,” Varric replied, impatiently waving his hand at her. “There are at least a  _couple_  more pressing things right now, Seeker.”

The Seeker turned her fury to Hawke. “Did  _you_  have a hand in this?” she demanded, hand gripping the hilt of her sword.

Hawke could have laughed at the hilarity of the statement. After all, it wasn’t the first time she was involved in the destruction of a holy establishment, and it seemed to be something of a recurring theme. But all she could feel was anger, stemming from the multitudes of emotions that whirled inside her at that moment.

“Contrary to popular belief, I actually  _don’t_  enjoy blowing up churches,” Hawke snapped. Her hand still held her staff, fingers tightening around it in response to the Seeker’s implied threat. “Particularly if my  _husband_  was inside one.”

That gave the Seeker pause, but it was a small thing.

“Why, then, was he there?” she asked, her tone biting.

“Oh for bloody—this  _really_  isn’t the time for that!” Hawke slashed her free hand in the air. “I’m going to find him, and I’m taking Varric with me, thank you  _very_  much.”

Heat flared in the Seeker’s cheeks, but from anger. She jutted her chin out and lifted her head in a commanding fashion.

“You’ll do no such thing,” she spoke, with the tone of an officer. “I cannot allow you two outside of Haven.”

“The fuck you  _will_ —!”

“Enough, you two!” Varric stepped in between them, looking from one to the other. “We’re losing daylight and we won’t find Fenris by fighting!”

Hawke bit her lip and breathed heavily through her nose, turning away. With a glance around, she realized her rather loud conversation with the Seeker had attracted onlookers, with varied expressions of confusion and horror. Villagers and soldiers alike, murmuring to each other in worried voices. The air was thick with tension, tasted and smelled like nauseating fear.

A voice rose above the crowd, firm and solid, “Troops! Rally to me!”

Cullen. Of course, of  _course_  he was here.

The Seeker nodded in his direction as soldiers rushed past them and gathered where Cullen likely was. “The Commander will organize the troops to rally the defenses. Leliana will assist by sending out search parties for survivors. Everything is being handled, and  _you_  are not leaving my sight.”

Hawke, in that moment, had an internal debate. She’d sparred with Aveline before, and while she couldn’t match for strength, she could with speed and magic. This Seeker, intimidating as she was, had nothing on Aveline’s sheer force of existence. The question, however, was whether or not it was a good idea to strike down the person holding Varric in custody and likely commanding a troop or two.

No, it wouldn’t be a good idea, but since when has that stopped her?

Varric, as though sensing her aura of bad life decisions, turned to her and took her hand.

“Hawke, I know you’re scared—,” he paused, blinked, then shook his head. “Damn, you’d think a writer could come up with better. Look, everything’s on fire up there.” He gestured to the Temple, where pillars of billowing smoke stood out against the snowy peaks like a fly in milk, or, rather, a hundred flies in milk. “If you go up there, there’s a hell of a chance you’ll get hurt too. Besides, by the time we even got there, the search parties will have already done their thing.”

Hawke narrowed her eyes. “So I’m just supposed to sit here while Fenris might be—no, I need to find him.”

“We’ll just get in the way,” Varric reasoned. “All of this sucks and it goes against everything you are, I  _know_ , but the best we can do right now is deal with what’s happening  _here._ ”

“Oh? And what’s happening  _here?_ ”

The Seeker pointed to the sky. “ _That._ ”

Hawke looked up, and her jaw dropped.

A great, gaping chasm, ripping through the sky, as though a giant claw tore through blue fabric. It glowed with a sickly green light, unnatural, unreal. Then, as she stared, it  _pulsed_  with energy, spreading in a wave across the sky and over the mountains. The pulse, the energy, hummed with a sort of magic that she’d never felt before. It was sick, nauseating, like smoke sticking to her lungs.

“No one knows what it is, but we think there may be more, smaller ones scattered across the countryside,” the Seeker continued. “Demons are appearing around the village already, and we do not know why.” She turned her gaze to Hawke, harsh and firm. “That is why we need you here.”

“I’m not your soldier,” Hawke retorted stubbornly.

“No, but you’re a Champion of the people, and these people need you.”

“ _Fenris_  needs me.”

The Seeker’s gaze softened, just a little, but she gritted her teeth. “He may already be dead.”

“ _Don’t you even_ —”

A hand on her arm. “Hawke,” Varric spoke. “We don’t have time. If Fenris is alive then he’s being brought here as we speak, and this place needs to be clear of demons before he gets here. Let’s do what we can, alright?”

Hawke glowered, her grip on her staff tightening and loosening and tightening again. Then, she deflated.

“Fine,” she gritted out, then turned away without another word.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris is found, and Hawke is upset with just about everything.

Hawke burst through the doors of the Chantry, rustling some loose papers and blowing out a few candles as she swept inside, her jaws set and steel in her eyes. Cullen stood near one of the pillars close to the door leading down to the dungeon. He looked up, startled, and visibly tensed when his eyes landed on her.

Before he could say anything, Hawke demanded, “ _Where is he_?”

Cullen nodded his head to the dungeon.

“He’s in a cell,” he replied.

“He  _what?_ ”

Cullen swallowed, but straightened up and squared his shoulders. “Cassandra and Leliana are holding him for questioning.”

“Are they.” Without waiting for a response, Hawke pushed past him and strode to the dungeon entrance. She ignored the footsteps behind her that belonged to Cullen, who hesitantly followed her at a distance.

The air was even cooler past the door, raising goosebumps on her skin as she descended the stone steps. Dim lanterns swung idly from the arched ceiling, swaying the shadows on the wall. There was something of a commotion further in, clinks of metal and terse voices bouncing off the stone.

As she approached, she saw Cassandra directing a few soldiers, and Varric helping them. They were lowering a limp figure to the rugged bedding on the floor. Hawke’s breath rushed out when she recognized the figure, a lean elf with white hair that stood out in the dark of the dungeon.

“Fenris,” Hawke breathed, rushing forward. But then, she stopped, her eyes landing on his wrists. A surge of anger welled up in her chest, and she whirled on Cassandra.

“You  _chained_  him?” Hawke snarled, disbelieving.

Cassandra looked up, her scowl deepening.

“He’s our only suspect,” she replied. “We’re taking every precaution necessary.”

“Necessary?” Hawke echoed. “Absolutely not, take them off.”

“I cannot.”

“You bloody well  _can_.” Hawke looked down at Fenris. His eyes were closed, head lolling to the side, brow slightly furrowed. The sight of him with his hands bound with metal cuffs made her stomach flip unpleasantly.

Varric lightly touched the chains. “Seeker, you might want to take Hawke’s advice on this one.”

“And if he wakes up and decides to escape? Or harm someone? No, that is took risky.” Cassandra began to turn away, as though dismissively, but Hawke grabbed her arm.

“You clearly don’t know Fenris,” Hawke snapped, stepping into Cassandra’s space. She was at least half a head taller than Hawke, but after the staring down the Arishok, it wasn’t much of a comparison. Unconsciously, Hawke’s hand drifted towards her staff. “If you really think he’s a criminal or he’s at fault for this, then fine, lock him in a cell, I don’t  _care_ , just take those bloody things  _off_.”

Cassandra’s nostrils flared. “What of that mark? What will you do about that?”

Hawke opened her mouth to speak—or rather, spit some expletives along the lines of  _what the hell are you talking about?_ —but a green light flashed in her vision. She looked towards the source, body tensed for some demonic magic of sorts, but her eyes widened when she saw Fenris’ hand.

It pulsed again, spilling light from glowing green vines wrapping around his hand. At the center looked like a glowing emerald, somehow pushed into his very skin.

Fenris’ jaws clenched and his face contracted a slight, his breath hitching, but he didn’t awake.

Hawke dropped to her knees at his side, taking his face in her hands. His skin was clammy, pale, and his breathing was ragged even as the pulse of light faded. She swept his hair from his face, feeling his forehead. A little warm, perhaps his body’s response to this foreign magic.

Magic. Oh, he was going to be  _terribly_  upset.

Hawke pushed back a thought before it formed, as it had started to sound like  _if he ever wakes up_. Instead, she looked up at Cassandra.

“Explain,” she said.

Cassandra was displeased at being ordered about, but she replied anyway. “We do not know what it is, but it seems to be connected to the Breach.”

A soft click echoed behind Hawke, and she jerked around to see Varric gently slipping the chains from Fenris’ wrists. His limp arms fell to his side, but it sounded as though he were able to breathe just a little easier.

At Cassandra’s scowl, Varric lifted his hands defensively. “You remember that Fenris can actually phase  _through_  objects, right? What do you think he’d do if he, a former slave, woke up in chains? That’s tossing oil on the fire, there, Seeker.”

Hawke gave him an appreciative smile, but then looked back down at Fenris. She took his hand in hers, studying the green light. She turned it over, looking at the palm. Narrowing her eyes, she tentatively raised her finger to it, caressing it lightly with her own magic. The light brightened, pulsing again, and Fenris’ breath hitched once more as he tensed in his sleep.

“Sorry, dear,” Hawke murmured. She looked at Varric, then Cassandra. “It feels like the Fade.”

Cassandra frowned. “What do you mean?”

“We have prior experience with the Fade,” Varric supplied. “I think Hawke can make a pretty good judgement on that.”

The door to the dungeon opened, temporarily lighting the room before it closed again with a loud clang. Metal footsteps on stone. Hawke turned her head to the guard as he stood approached the cell.

“Lady Cassandra,” the guard spoke. “An elf says he wants to talk to you.”

“Later,” Cassandra retorted.

“He says it’s about the Breach, ma’am.”

She looked up sharply, her eyes narrowed seriously. “Very well, I will come—”

“That won’t be necessary,” a new voice uttered.

Hawke was immediately on her feet, hand to staff, facing the intruder. A pale elf with a shaven head, dressed in rags like a nomad, though he lacked the Dalish markings. A staff was tied to his back. He looked to all of the weapons now pointed at him, raising his hands in surrender.

“Forgive me,” he said, lowering his head in deference. “I thought it pertinent I come as soon as I could.”

“Who  _are_  you?” Cassandra demanded, lowering her sword only a little.

“A traveler,” the elf replied. “My name is Solas. I saw what happened from a ways away, and I felt I should lend assistance.”

Varric stood up, wiping the dust from his pants. “That’s a nice staff you got there,” he said idly.

“An apostate,” Cullen murmured, his voice sharp. 

Solas glanced at him, the corner of his lip twitching. “Yes, I am a mage. And that is the man that bears magic related to what is occurring above us.”

“What makes you think you can help?” Hawke asked. This was new to everyone. Weird shit has happened before—many times, in fact—but this was a first for a gaping hole in the sky.

“I have studied much in my travels, particularly the Fade,” Solas answered. “That—” he nodded to Fenris. “—looks like Fade magic.”

Hawke looked at Varric, but he only shrugged. Cassandra looked as though she were just about to kick him right out of Haven, but Hawke straightened up before she could.

“Can you fix this?” Hawke gestured to Fenris’ hand, kneeling down again as she took his other hand in hers.

A pause, as the guards looked to Cassandra for an order. She must have nodded her head, because they stepped back and there was a presence right next to her.

Solas knelt down next to her, peering at Fenris with a studious eye. He held his hand over Fenris, then looked to Hawke.

“May I?” he asked.

Hawke nodded, and he gently picked up the hand with the glowing mark. Turning it over and around with delicate fingers, he was silent but focused, so very careful of what he was holding as though it would fall apart.

Cassandra muttered something to the guards, a few of them filed out of the dungeon, Cullen among them. Hawke didn’t know where they were going, but Cassandra seemed to be mostly at ease now, despite two apostates sitting next to her prisoner.

Solas then moved his examination upward, checking Fenris’ pulse and breath and other such things. After a considerable amount of quiet, he said quietly, “I do not believe I can remove it just yet, but I think I can make sure it doesn’t kill him.”

Hawke’s shoulders and neck tensed, her gut pierced with cold. “What do you mean?”

“The mark is interacting poorly with the lyrium in his body,” Solas explained. “How did he come by these?” He indicated to the lines of lyrium tracing along Fenris’ skin.

“A pretty nasty Tevinter magister,” Varric responded from where he stood, leaning on the wall and acting a little too casual. “Something about making the perfect weapon, except with a person.”

Hawke clenched her jaw. The man had been dead for years, and she still felt glimmers of hatred for him every once and a while. Solas, for his part, seemed to understand immediately, and she was surprised to see a similar anger hiding behind his frown. If Varric noticed, he didn’t say anything.

Time for a subject change. “Can you wake him up?” she asked.

Solas didn’t answer immediately. But then, “I can try, but there’s only so much I can do when such a powerful magic is at play.”

Hawke pursed her lips, reaching for Fenris’ good hand again and stroking his fingers.

Cassandra came to stand next to them. “If you are able to wake him, how long do you think it will take?”

“How important is he to you?” Solas responded with a question of his own.

A glower, and she replied, “He’s the only survivor from the Conclave. I need information.”

Solas nodded. “I see.” He pulled his pack from his shoulders, setting it and his staff to the side. Opening the pack, he rummaged inside it and withdrew small pouches and flasks. “I do not know the answer, but I advise to wait at least four or five days. If he’s not awake by then, I am not sure he ever will be.”

Hawke’s fingers tightened around Fenris’, and she glared at Solas. “How can you be certain?”

“I’m not,” Solas replied coolly, reaching to loosen Fenris’ gauntlets and sleeves. “These things never are, but five days is enough to exhaust any attempts to revive him. Beyond that, there wouldn’t be much else we can do.”

Hawke wanted to cry. She wouldn’t, not while she wasn’t alone in the room, but a familiar pressure started poking behind her eyes. Fenris breathed softly, though shallowly, looking as though wherever his mind was, he wasn’t particularly enjoying it. She couldn’t lose him. He was some of her only family left, and it would be her fault once more if he died now.

Hawke stroked Fenris’ hand with her thumb. “Alright.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apparently just completely forgot Cullen was in the cell with them a few times. Oops?


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris' POV, and he's not enjoying it one bit.

Fenris had experienced at least a few odd things in his lifetime. The frequency of such things increased exponentially after he met Hawke. He wasn’t sure whether to thank her for preparing him for future oddities, or blame her for whatever curse she’d unintentionally shared with him. Both, perhaps?

In spite of all of his experience—which included Qunari invasions, dream-walking the Fade, an ancient Tevinter magister out for Hawke’s blood, and a Knight Commander turning into a solid statue of red lyrium—Fenris was  _not_  prepared to wake up in a vast, desolate expanse of land that appeared to disregard the general rules of what a land should look like. A sky should be  _blue_ , or some variety thereof. Green was typically out of the question, but here he stood, and up there was a sky the color of bile.

As it were, what irked Fenris even more was that he couldn’t remember how he’d gotten there. As familiar as he was with amnesia, it irritated him no less than it had before. And he was hoping  _this_  particular bout only covered the last few hours, maybe days if he was being generous. If he were to find out that, once again, whole  _years_  had been removed from his memory, he’d be very cross indeed.

With a huff, Fenris dusted off his pants, scuffing the ground with his bare feet to determine how well he could fight on it. It was cracked and hard as rock—granite?—so even though it wouldn’t collapse under his weight, it certainly didn’t give him even footing. That was fine, he could adjust if any enemies came his way.

Another glance around, and Fenris decided to take the path that led to the only light source that  _could_  indicate an exit. If he’d possessed any more understanding of this place, he’d be able to navigate it much better, but he was stuck with following light like a moth. It  _sounded_  like a reasonable enough plan.

As far as plans went, it held up fairly well as he ascended the ragged, stone steps up the mountain. The eerie quiet meant that he was relatively safe—or, at least, currently  _not_  dying. That is, until hushed voices made his ears twitch.

Fenris turned to look behind him, eyes widening and blood freezing at what he saw.

“Hawke?” he breathed.

She smiled, even as blood trickled from her mouth. Her hand lifted to gesture to her chest, where a gaping hole seemed to scream at him. Broken ribs poked out, dripping with a dark, thick liquid. Fenris’ stomach flipped as his heart jumped to his throat.

“Suppose you really  _did_  steal my heart, didn’t you?” Hawke said, laughing, her voice wrong in every way.  

Fenris took a step back, his hand reaching for his sword. Her laughter grew and seemed to echo from every corner of this forsaken realm, until he realized that more Hawkes were appearing, laughing and pointing and weeping and demanding blood. They bunched up behind the first one, pressing, urgent.

Another step backward, and Fenris turned and fled.

Panicked thoughts raced through his mind. Those were  _demons_ , he realized, which meant he was in the  _Fade_  and  _how is that at all possible?_

The how’s and why’s mattered very little in that moment, however, as Hawke’s laughter morphed into another laugh, belonging to someone long dead. It was now Danarius’ voice that boomed behind him, creeping into his ears like a slime-covered hiss and seizing his heart with that cruel, haughty cackle.

Fenris didn’t dare look behind him at this point, so he continued clambering up the steep slope of steps.

“ _Hurry!_ ” a new voice called from the direction of the light.

Squinting, Fenris made out the figure of a woman, holding out her hand. He picked up the pace, frantically ignoring what felt like groping fingers at his heels. His breath came harshly, sharp pain blossoming in his chest with every pant. His muscles were screaming, begging for rest, but he would not have it with that monster behind him.

He was close enough now that he reached out for the woman’s outstretched hand. Almost there, almost touching—

* * *

 

At this point, Fenris was growing very tired of ending up with his face in the dirt, but his body was much too exhausted to be of much help in remedying that problem. Ash filled his nose and mouth, swirling around just inside his blurred, limited vision. He closed his eyes as distant, urgent voices washed over him, finally submitting to rest.

 

* * *

 

His head hurt. His chest hurt. His hand hurt even worse. Though he was familiar with waking up in pain, he never got around to actually enjoying it.

Fenris numbly realized that his head was propped up on something warm and firm, though a little soft. The rest of him lay on a hard surface. He could feel cold stone through the flimsy fabric beneath him. Fingers were idly threading through his hair. Soft breathing filled his ears, making his muscles relax almost reflexively. He knew those fingers, that breath, the thigh his head currently rested on. It was a struggle to open his eyes, as though stones were attached to the lids, but with a small groan escaping his throat, he managed to pry them open and turn his head to look at his wife.

“ _Fenris_ ,” Hawke breathed, leaning over him and moving her hands to cradle his head. “ _Maker_ , I thought—never mind, you’re awake!”

She peppered his face with gentle kisses, and though he noticed the small drops of water trickle onto his face, he made no mention of it. Instead, he reached with his hand for hers and laced together their fingers.

A pair of footsteps echoed in his ears, but they were moving away from him and Hawke. He ignored it.

“Hawke,” he greeted hoarsely. He swallowed thickly, his mouth dry, his tongue like a wool sock. “What—what happened?” He turned his head to look at his surroundings, brow furrowing at the sight of bars and guards. “Where… are we? How long have I been—?”

“Haven,” Hawke answered, lightly squeezing his fingers. “You’ve been out for a little over three days now. I’d asked nicely for more comfortable lodging, but that was denied  _quite_  rudely.”

“I can only imagine you paid them back in full?” he asked dryly, his voice only cracking a little.

“Naturally.”

Fenris chuckled weakly, then, clenching his jaw, he pushed himself into a sitting position. Hawke pressed a hand to his back, giving him support as he scanned the room more intently. A dungeon, he realized, his eyes landing on chains hanging from the walls.

“Were you arrested?” he asked, his thoughts quickening in panic. Surely, they hadn’t gotten so sloppy? “Did the Templars find you?”

Hawke shook her head. “Nothing like that, no.”

A small relief. “What happened, then?”

She frowned, her lips pursed. “We were hoping you’d tell us.”

“‘We’?”

Hawke opened her mouth to speak, but a green light suddenly filled his vision and white pain seared through his hand and up his arm. Fenris cried out, gripping at his wrist as the lyrium in his marking reacted, flickered, then ebbed as the pain faded. He panted, curled into himself, trying to even his breathing as Hawke held his shoulders.

When he opened his eyes again, Fenris looked down at his hand, his ears lowering in disbelief. There, in the center of his palm, glowed a green, gem-like light. It was fading along with the pain, but it was branded in his vision.

Not looking away from his hand, he gritted out, “What magic is this?”

Hawke hesitated, then asked softly, “Do you remember anything?”

Fenris glanced at her with narrowed eyes, recognizing an evasive question when he saw it. Still he responded, “I only recall the Conclave. I was comfortably  _not_  in a dungeon, nor was I cursed with another magical marking. Hawke, what  _happened?_ ”

Before she could respond, a door opened, the hinges tiredly squeaking as light spilled into the dungeon. Clinks of armor echoed on the stone as footsteps approached. Fenris looked up to see two women, one hooded, the other in full warrior attire and cropped hair. The symbol of the Seekers of Truth was emblazoned on her chest plate, and her grim scowl reflected that status.

The hooded woman, however, felt more threatening. The warrior he could handle, but this rogue bore the air of someone who knew how to kill you and draw information out of you at the same time, possibly one-handed. She was peering at him, her gaze sharp and inquisitive.

Still, it was the Seeker that spoke, looking at Fenris as he struggled to his feet. “While you are under the Champion’s protection, I will refrain from killing you,” she said, her lilting accent taking nothing away from the threat. “For now, at least.”

“Would you give it a rest, Cass?” Hawke said, sighing dramatically as she drew up close to him. He felt her finger lightly tap the back of his elbow, a signal of support. “I told you, he’s difficult to intimidate.”

“Tell me why I shouldn’t toss you outside, Champion?” the Seeker snapped.

“You’d miss my charm.”

“Hawke,” Fenris admonished lightly, with a note of exasperation. He turned to the Seeker. “Why are we here? What has happened?”

The hooded woman spoke up. “The Temple of Sacred Ashes was destroyed. No one survived.” Here, she tilted her head. “Except for you.”

Fenris blinked. There had been hundreds of people there, including the Divine and other clerics. He’d have thought he’d remember something like that, but it wasn’t the first time he struggled to recall something important.

He turned to give Hawke a confounded look, mixed with something accusing, and she raised her hands defensively.

“I was  _getting_  to that part,” she said.

Her words were light, but with forced cheer. From the sag in her shoulders to the shadows under her eyes, he could tell all of this was affecting her greatly. As the information slowly sunk in, he could understand why. All those people, dead. Something heavy settled in his gut, akin to distant grief, but it wasn’t a thing he had time for.

Something clicked in his mind, and he turned back to the Seeker. “You think I’m responsible.”

The hooded woman raised a brow. “Are you?”

Fenris set his jaw, resisting the urge to lash out in frustration. “I have no memory of it.”

The Seeker stepped forward and grabbed his wrist. “If you aren’t at fault, then explain  _this._ ” She held up his marked hand, the green light gently glowing from his palm.

“I cannot,” Fenris snapped, wrenching his arm out of her grip. “I don’t  _remember._  I don’t even know what this  _thing_  is.” He held up his hand, clenching it into a fist as it pulsed again. Pain shot down his arm once more, but he was somewhat prepared for it this time, even as his marking flickered in response and his breath hitched. Hawke’s hand was at his elbow again, but he paid no mind.

“How am I supposed to believe  _that?_ ” the Seeker demanded, stepping into his space threateningly. Hawke tensed next to him, and Fenris lifted his chin defiantly. He had no weapons, as they’d likely been confiscated, but between Hawke and himself, he was sure they could take these two women. His fingers twitched, Hawke moved just so—

“Easy, Cassandra,” the hooded woman said, drawing close to them and grasping the Seeker’s shoulder. “We need him.”

“Oh?” Hawke spoke up, relaxing her stance slightly. “Why’s that?”

“You’ll find out soon enough,” Cassandra replied, a little ominously. But she stepped away, dropping her hand from her sword.

Hawke huffed, but said no more.

The hooded woman spoke again. “Is there anything you remember? Anything that might have caused this?”

Fenris thought. There was a gaping, blank space in his mind, as though he’d slept through the entire thing. Perhaps he had. But something flickered, in a faint, vague memory that prodded his mind.

“I was running,” he spoke, unsure. “I was… being chased. There was a woman.”

“A woman?” Cassandra echoed. “Did you see what she looked like?”

Fenris shook his head. “I do not recall her face.”

“Oh, balls, this is where someone would say a dirty joke,” Hawke muttered, crossing her arms. “You know, something about giving it from the rear—I should keep my mouth shut, though, shouldn’t I?”

“I would advise it, yes,” Fenris replied idly. He turned to see the hooded woman giving Cassandra a look, a silent conversation.

Whatever was conveyed there, Cassandra nodded. “Go to the forward camp, Leliana,” she said. “I’ll take him to the rift.”

“He just woke up!” Hawke protested before Fenris could ask what a  _rift_  was. “At least let him eat something first.”

Cassandra gave her a sharp look as Leliana turned and strode away. “There is no time,” she said, her voice taking a tone of authority. She looked at Fenris. “I cannot explain in words. It would be better to show you.”

Fenris exchanged a look with Hawke. This wasn’t how things were supposed to go. Not at all. And from the grim set of her jaw, Hawke seemed to agree heartily.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris really doesn't like this mark on his hand.

“You know, since a bridge literally just collapsed under our feet and sent us plummeting down rocks and ice, I think I’m going to just take a moment. A breather, if you will.”

Fenris looked down at Hawke as she spoke, slowly getting to his feet. She was sprawled on her back, staring up at the sky as if it had personally offended her. A snort nearly escaped him. There was a large, dangerous, and hideous hole in the sky, which was, of course, more than enough to put Hawke off her tea. She was covered head to toe in tiny bits of rubble, coating her hair and clothes in a dusty layer. She didn’t look badly hurt, for which Fenris was grateful.

His entire body felt as though it would later be a painting of scrapes and bruises. He was honestly surprised that none of his bones—or Hawke’s, for that matter—had broken. A glance to the corpses of some unfortunate soldiers told him that the blast that had _caused_ the bridge to collapse was deadly enough as it was. And yet, they’d miraculously survived.

But a twitch of his ears told him that their survival streak might not last as long as they’d hoped.

“There are demons approaching,” Fenris told her, holding his hand out to pull her up. “You’ll have to save that breather for later.”

“Bollocks,” Hawke muttered, reaching up and grasping his hand. Her fingers were cold against his, but there was no time to let the touch linger.

Cassandra was already on her feet, sword drawn and shield at the ready. “Demons!” she cried. To Fenris, she ordered, “Stay back!”

Fenris gave her a flat look. His weapons had been confiscated—which was a shame, since the sword Hawke had given him was quite reliable—but it wasn’t as though he couldn’t still fight.

Well. Fighting demons with your fists probably wasn’t the most intelligent idea.

A couple of Shades appeared, screeching their ungodly cry as they charged Cassandra. Hawke picked her staff up from the frozen ground where it had been tossed in the fall. At her feet was a splintered crate that had been broken on impact. A gleam of steel caught Fenris’ eye.

He strode over and bent down to pick up the greatsword poking out of the crate. It wasn’t the best quality, but it was better than nothing. He gripped it in his hand, making a few test swings with it.

“Convenient,” Hawke mumbled, eyeing the sword even as she readied her battle stance.

Fenris shrugged, then turned to join Cassandra in the fight against the Shades.

* * *

 As Fenris and Hawke both swept into the next battle against demons, Fenris started planning something of an exit strategy for when this was all over. Or, as was more likely, if things started turning for the worse and there was nothing else to do except run. Antiva might serve well as a hideaway. Or perhaps Starkhaven, assuming Sebastian wasn’t still sour over Hawke sparing Anders.

Fenris ducked under the swipe of a spindly, green demon, its enormous claws just barely missing his head as he cut through its body. An ink-like liquid splattered over him, and he pursed his lips shut so he wouldn’t accidentally digest it.

A loud barking suddenly caught his attention, and he looked up to see a great mabari pummel another Shade to the ground. Cassandra glanced away from her own fight, her eyes blinking with wonder and confusion.

“Beanie-boy!” Hawke exclaimed, finishing up with a Wisp by shooting a small bolt of lightning at it. She dropped to her knees and held her arms wide. “I’ve been wondering where you were, you great brute!”

Bean looked up from the disintegrating demon, his tongue lolling happily. His ears perked at the sound of Hawke’s voice, and, with a bark, he bounded over and launched into her arms. She laughed in delight as her face was licked with fervor, though she struggled to keep her balance with the large, squirming mass that seemed determined to dog-pile her.

A grin spread Fenris’ lips. “Was he not supposed to stay at the camp?” he asked.

“Well when there’s demons coming out of everyone’s asses, I suppose a dog can do as he pleases,” Hawke retorted. “Have you been playing around with demons, boy? Have you? You’re a good boy, yes you are!”

Bean preened under Hawke’s words as she ran her hands over his fur and scratched behind his ears, under his chin, and everything else she could reach. Fenris chuckled, utterly distracted from any mention of demons. The smile on Hawke’s face was one he hadn’t seen in some time. Strained, yes, but genuine all the same, and it made his heart flutter.

His attention was drawn to Cassandra when she flicked ichor from her sword, sending Hawke a look of annoyance. She opened her mouth, about to speak, when Fenris’ ear twitched and he turned to the sound of a nearby scuffle. A shout and a laugh could be heard just above the noise, drawing his brow into a furrow as he recognized that voice.

“What is it?” Cassandra spoke, having noticed Fenris’ sudden stillness.

“Someone’s found more demons,” Fenris responded, shifting his sword in his hands.

“Or, rather,” Hawke said, getting to her feet, though she still had a hand on Bean’s massive head. “The demons found _them_.”

Cassandra ignored Hawke for favor of pinning a hard stare on Fenris. After a moment, she nodded, and sheathed her sword. “We will go assist, then.”

They made way, quickly coming across another small battle. Fenris nearly laughed with joy at the sight of a familiar dwarf and his crossbow. But then, something _else_ drew his attention.

In the center of the small courtyard, around which demons and dwarves danced their deadly tune, was a bright, crystal-like orb that flashed a brilliant green. It seemed to _tug_ at the mark on his own hand, pulling him to it like a magnet. What horrified him more was the realization that the demons were emerging from it. This was what Cassandra had called a rift.

It pulsed, and with it came pain lancing up Fenris’ hand and making him stumble. More Shades appeared, their screeches filling his ears to match the needles scraping through his arm. He heard his name on Hawke’s lips, felt her magic surround him, her lightning piercing the air and splintering each demon it touched.

Just as Fenris stood again and drew his sword, an arrow whistled past his ear, and a demon burst into ichor and filth just behind him.

“Elf!” Varric exclaimed, lowering his crossbow. “Good to see you, Sleeping Beauty!”

Without bothering to reply, Fenris threw himself into the fight. Varric had made considerable progress already, so there were only a few straggling Lesser Shades, but he felt it prudent to deal with them as quickly as he could. A quick, messy battle that gifted him with more dark splatters on his armor, making his skin sticky with both sweat and demonic fluids.

When the last one withered around Fenris’ sword, a hand gripped his wrist and pulled it towards the rift. His markings came alight, startled, but the person holding him wasn’t the only thing pulling the marked hand forward.

“Quickly, before more come through!” a voice shouted at him.

Fenris blinked as his hand was held before the rift, like an offering, a demand. Then, his vision went dark as white-hot fire burned up his arm and through his body, engulfing him, and he could only cry out. It could only have lasted a few seconds at the most, but it seemed hours.

It wasn’t unfamiliar, though. The last time he’d felt a similar pain was when he’d awoken to his newly-made lyrium marking so many years ago.

Then, Fenris was blinking up at Hawke’s pale face, his knees digging in to the frozen ground. A heavy warmth was pressed to his side, and he recognized Bean’s scent and the wet nose that poked his cheek. Hawke gripped his arms, gently, but still taking some of his weight, making sure he didn’t collapse then and there. Her eyes searched his, wide and frightened. Had he caused that?

“Are you hurt?” she asked, moving her hand to his face. He placed his hand over hers.

“No longer,” he answered hoarsely. Bean whined.

“Forgive me,” the new voice spoke, just to his side. “I had not anticipated such a reaction.”

Fenris looked up, taking in the sight of the bedraggled elf. There was no sign of malice, yet the furrowed brow of an intelligent mind did not make Fenris eager to trust him.

“What happened, then?” Hawke asked. She helped Fenris to his feet, but she gave the stranger a quizzical look. “You’ve already studied his mark, did you know it would do that?”

Fenris frowned at Hawke. “You are acquainted?”

Before Hawke could respond, Varric spoke up behind him with a laugh. “Chuckles here spent a good three or so days making sure you didn’t konk out on us.” Fenris turned his head, narrowing his eyes at Varric as he made adjustments to his crossbow. “Probably one of the few reasons you’re still here, actually.”

“Chuckles has a name, of course,” the elf said mildly, turning to Fenris. “I am Solas. Varric is correct, though I should add it was all with your wife’s permission.”

Fenris peered at him, unsure of the idle air this Solas seemed to hide himself under. He was leaning somewhat on his staff, appearing casual, harmless. The clothes he wore suggested extensive travel, though he bore no traits of a city or Circle elf, and he was bare of any Dalish markings.

He was like a blank page, decorated just enough to pass as something tangible. Fenris didn’t trust him.

“You closed the… rift, with this mark?” Fenris asked, holding up his hand.

“The credit goes to you, I’m afraid,” Solas replied. “I merely guessed it might work. It seems I was correct.”

“And what _is_ this?” Fenris turned his hand over, where the mark glowed its sickly green.

Solas shook his head. “I cannot answer, not until it’s studied further.” At this, he turned to Cassandra. “This is not like any magic I have encountered before. It is unlikely a mage was responsible for this, let alone an elf with no magic of his own.” At the last bit, Solas tilted his head at Fenris.

“I see,” Cassandra said with a nod. Surprisingly, she didn’t seem concerned with trusting a mage. An apostate, at that. “Can his mark be used on the Breach?”

“Beg pardon?” Hawke said, her eyes widening in alarm.  

Solas had opened his mouth to respond, but Fenris interjected with rush of anger.

“No!” he snapped. His marked hand sliced through air, and he glared at the offending glow. “Whatever this is, I want it gone. I will not tolerate more magic being forced on me!”

Solas raised his hands in deference, unaffected by Fenris’ outburst. “I do not think that is possible just yet,” he explained. “The mark has been infused with your body. It cannot be separated without you losing your hand as well.”

“Then remove my hand,” Fenris retorted, holding it out to Solas like an offering.

Solas blinked, seemingly speechless, even as noises of protest erupted from both Hawke and Varric. Cassandra, even, had a look of alarm.

“Now hold on there, elf—” Varric spluttered, shuffling up to him. “Don’t decide things too hastily.”

“There’s nothing hasty about this. This mark is a poison and must be removed.”

Even as he spoke, the mark pulsed quietly in his palm, clawed tendrils of its magic sneaking up his arm. The lyrium in his markings continued to respond to it, pricking at his skin, driving him to want to scratch at it until it bleeds. For years he had dealt with the constant irritation and pain of the markings, until it had become almost unnoticeable. He refused to have to adapt to another sort of magic that only seemed to exacerbate the lyrium.

Hawke stepped in front of him, a thoughtful but furrowed look on her face. “Fenris, you use a two-handed sword,” she said, reaching to touch his unmarked arm. “That requires _two hands._ ”

“I will adapt,” Fenris replied, undeterred. “If I must learn to use a longsword, I will.”

“This is your _hand_.”

“I am _aware._ ”

Cassandra spoke up, stepping closer, her shoulders straight and jaw tense. “Until we can deal with the Breach, your hand will remain where it is.”

Fenris glared at her. “I do not answer to you.”

Varric, as he does, interrupted with a casual tone. “Okay, elf, how about we split the difference?”

“How do you split the difference of a hand?” Hawke asked. “That’s what we’re trying to _avoid._ ”

Irritation pricked at Fenris’ chest. This was his decision, as he was the one with a foreign magic invading his body. It was simple enough. If he had been bitten by a snake and the venom couldn’t be removed, then the affected flesh and blood was removed. He didn’t understand why he couldn’t just take his sword and do it himself, as his own wife was insistent on preventing just that.

Something warm and wet touched his fingers, and he looked down to see Bean licking his marked hand, cooling the skin with saliva. Bean whined, nudging his hand with his muzzle.

“Fenris,” Varric continued, ignoring Hawke. “How about we let the nice elf study your hand some more before we chop it off? It hasn’t killed you yet, so we could learn how to remove it, if it’s possible.”

Fenris raised a brow. “And if it kills me in the future?”

“We’ll have time to prevent that from happening, I assure you,” Solas added.

Fenris was about to round on Solas again when Hawke spoke.

“Look, while Solas does research on it, you can go ahead and train with a longsword,” she said. She was puckering her lips a little, as she did when she thought. “And if we find everything there is to know about it and there’s _still_ no way to remove the mark, _then_ we can chop it off, and you’d have already been training to fight without it. Does that work?”

Fenris considered. The mark was like shards of glass splintering into his skin, though the pain was fading somewhat now that it’s rested some. He clenched his fist once, then unclenched it. His arm felt heavy under his armor, aching and sore not just from battle. The ache stretched to his neck and to the base of his skull, where he could feel a headache beginning to form.

He looked between Hawke’s pursed lips and Solas’ pinched brow.

“Very well,” he said after a long moment, heavy sigh rushing from his chest.

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke has a guilt complex and Varric tries to be a friend.

Hawke sat still in the chair she’d dragged up to Fenris’ bed, leaning forward with her elbows on the straw mattress. His breathing was ragged, though much steadier than it had been the day before, and the day before that. She held his marked hand between hers, pressing it against her mouth as she listened to his soft exhales. His lips were parted, just enough for Hawke to know his mouth would be dry when he woke up.

Bean lay sprawled at Fenris’ side, head propped on his thigh. The dog’s eyes drooped closed, and he occasionally let out a snore loud enough to wake himself back up before settling back down again.

Sunlight filtered through the window, dappling long shadows against the floor. Night would fall soon, marking the fourth day Fenris slept. His superficial wounds had been tended to, and no longer soaked his bandages with blood. The alchemist— _not_ a healer, she’d noted bitterly—had told her it would be another waiting game. All things considered, it was remarkable his healing was going as well as it had.

The original rift had been a nightmare to seal. They’d had to reopen it, which of course allowed a massive Pride demon to burst through and wreak havoc. Hawke herself had sustained some bruised ribs from being flung back into a crumbling pillar, as well as some nasty scrapes and cuts. When it had finally been cut down—by an impressive combination of Hawke’s lighting and some of Varric’s favorite fire-bolts—she’d been gleeful that they’d reached the end.

“Hurry! Close it!” Cassandra had shouted, and Fenris had hesitantly stretched out his left arm to beckon to the rift.

His following scream had cut through Hawke as though it were the sword on Fenris’ back, and she stumbled over to him just as the rift faded and his eyes rolled back in his head. She’d caught him before his head hit the ground, and the next few minutes had been filled with the same terror of _oh Maker he isn’t waking up._

He’d been so pale, a sheen of sweat glistening across his brow, making his hair stick. His head lolled in the crook of Hawke’s arm, his breathing so horribly labored that it took Varric a great deal to convince her he wasn’t dying.

And yet, it wasn’t the only thing that disquieted Hawke as she sat at her husband’s side, waiting.

They’d found red lyrium in the temple, as if the Breach hadn’t been worrisome enough. With it brought distant memories of her baby brother’s face pale with the taint, of his blood that soaked her hands when she took his life. Varric, obviously, was _rather_ upset at the sheer size of the lyrium vein, as it was at least ten times the amount as had been in that damned idol.

And _then_ , a disembodied voice had filled the temple before they’d even reached the rift, and the sound rang loud and dangerous bells in Hawke’s memory. Suddenly, she was back in the Temple of Dumat, facing a creature with a massive amount of mana and very cross to find that he’d woken up in the wrong century.

To witness the brief vision of her husband facing down the ancient, gnarled magister was both inspiring and absolutely terrifying. Worse still, Fenris still couldn’t remember any of it.

Had it been a farce to conceal the identity of who was truly responsible? Or had she somehow failed in killing that twisted, horrific darkspawn those years ago?

Neither option was appealing, but she had a feeling that Fenris lying here unconscious and marked with another painful magic was completely and utterly her fault.

The mark on Fenris’ hand glimmered a moment, and his jaw clenched in his sleep. Hawke closed her eyes, pressing her lips to his hand and bowing her head.

“I’m so sorry, dear,” she murmured. Her hands shook just slightly.

A knock on the door echoed across the wooden floors, and Hawke hastily wiped at her eyes, looking to see Varric poking his head through the door. Bean perked his ears, tail thumping on the mattress.

“Mind if I come in?” he asked, his grin warming the room.

“Can’t ever turn you away,” Hawke replied, attempting at a smile. “It’s illegal. Against the rules.”

“Don’t worry, you’d only have to pay the fine of buying me a pint,” Varric shot back, stepping through the door and shutting it with a soft thud. He paused at the tray of broth and bread sitting on a table close to the door. No steam rose from it, as it must have been there for at least an hour. Nothing like cold soup to ruin the appetite.

Still, he made a note to bring Hawke another tray.

“Any stirring?” he asked instead, stepping up to the bed. He reached out to let Bean sniff his hand, then scratched behind his ears.

Hawke shook her head. “It’s been quiet.”

Varric glanced over the elf, pursed his lips in a frown, looked back at Hawke. Fenris, at least, seemed to be getting better with each day. Dark bags hung under Hawke’s eyes, her pale cheeks stretched tight over her cheekbones. Her jawline was much more prominent than it had been last time he’d seen her back in Kirkwall, and her hair longer and shaggier.

“His color’s better,” he remarked idly. Hawke hummed in agreement.

The light in the room faded as dusk crept in, and Varric sighed.

“Come on, Hawke, let me buy you a drink,” he said, raising a beckoning hand to her. “And some cheese at the bare minimum.”

Hawke huffed. “I don’t like cheese all that much.”

“Hmm, I’m sure we can find a moldy slice of bread, at least.”

Hawke snorted, gently laying Fenris’ hand down. “Thank you, Varric, but I’m not hungry.”

Varric did his best to hide his disappointment, as it would help neither Hawke nor himself. Instead, he nodded, then turned to fireplace and picked up an iron poker and a flint. Hawke didn’t stop him, only looking up with an almost exasperated expression.

Soon, a small flame was going, catching on to the kindling and spreading over the larger logs. The light made the outside sky appear much dimmer than it had, casting wavering shadows along the walls. Patches of yellow glowed on Hawke’s cheeks, glimmering in her eyes. Even Fenris looked warmer, his breath easier as heat steadily filled the room.

A log cracked, popping with a burst of sparks. Bean shifted in the bed, stretching out to lay alongside Fenris instead and let out a long sigh.

Hawke eventually broke the silence, as Varric knew she would.

“Do you think it was really him?” she asked, softly. It hurt Varric to hear the effort she spent in not allowing her voice to shake. “Was it really Corypheus?”

Varric didn’t respond for a moment, choosing instead to pick up the small cauldron sitting next to the hearth. He’d been wondering the same thing all day, his mind running through every possible scenario that could have led to Corypheus’ bullshit resurrection. But, smart as he was, he couldn’t claim to understand everything, so there were things he had to just _accept_ at face value.

Which, honestly, made being a good, supportive friend very difficult.

“I don’t know, Hawke,” Varric replied, standing up and shuffling to where the tray had been left on the table. “I really don’t.”

Hawke sighed, a half-hearted mocking tone. “Isn’t it your job to know things?”

Varric let himself chuckle. “No, my job is to write books, manage the family business, and circulate information through people that don’t trust me or each other. And, occasionally, lie out of my ass.” He picked up the bowl of soup, tipped it into the cauldron. Bean lifted his head, regarding the dwarf with interest now that he was holding _food_. “Ancient magister darkspawn thing who might have found a backdoor out of the afterlife? Most definitely _not_ in the job description.”

He set the bowl down and ambled back over to the fireplace. The flames had enveloped the logs, warmth flowing from it and making his skin tingle as though he stood in the desert on a hot day. He’d have to wait for it to die down a little, so he set the cauldron down and pulled up a stool to sit on.

“But what if it _is_ him?” Hawke had her head bowed, hand clasped together so tight her fingers became a mash of red and white.

Varric looked at Fenris, at his rising and falling chest, and the glimmering hand that Hawke couldn’t stop staring at. “Then we fix it,” he said. Then, more firmly, “This isn’t your doing, Hawke. You did everything you could.”

“Yes, including releasing him in the first place,” Hawke countered. Her hands shook. “With my own _blood._ ”

“You know, with everything that’s happened, I think he’d have bust out of there with or without our intervention,” Varric said. He spread his hands. “You did what you could, but at the same time, there wasn’t anything you could _do._ ”

Hawke sent him a baleful look. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“If I had the power to control how you felt, I’d have fixed that guilt complex of yours years ago.”

She barked out a startled laugh. “I suppose you’re right.” She turned, looked him the eye almost sheepishly. “Perhaps I do need a drink.”

Varric smiled. “Now you’re talkin’.”

* * *

 

The tavern was small, and about as quiet as you could get with just a few thrown-together troops of under-trained soldiers. They still seemed to be celebrating the rift being stabilized, though the cheer was rounded down with sandpaper still by the Conclave. Hawke wondered how much these men were being compensated just to stick around and fluff up their numbers.

She briefly worried about leaving Fenris behind, but she’d also left Bean to watch over him. If something were to happen, Hawke would always be able to hear his howl from a mile away.

Varric gestured to the barmaid to bring them some drinks, and Hawke drifted over to an empty table closer to the door while he went to the bar to give his order.

One soldier, a young woman still wearing her leathers, was staring at her from another table.

Hawke looked away, eager to ignore questions and, instead, drink her fill. But the soldier had other ideas.

“You’re the Champion of Kirkwall?” she asked, leaning away from her table and towards Hawke’s.

Hawke breathed deeply through her nose, exhaled slowly. “Depends on who’s asking.”

“And you’re married to the Herald of Andraste?”

Hawke blinked. “The what now?”

“The elf Andraste sent out of the Fade. Your husband. Was he really chosen?”

Mouth open, gawking for a brief moment, Hawke started wondering where Varric had buggered off to. If this soldier hadn’t been looking at her like some awed child that had found a pile of new toys on her bed, Hawke might have laughed at the ludicrousness of what she’d just said.

Instead, she closed her mouth, then opened again, “Who—where did you hear that?”

“Everyone’s been talking about it,” the soldier said, as though it were obvious. “Bran even asked Lady Cassandra about it.”

“Oh? And what did she say?”

“She told him he had better things to worry about, which is fair, Bran was always the nosy one—”

“Bran with the freckles?” Varric interrupted, sliding into the chair opposite from Hawke and sliding her a pint. “Been asking me shit too. ‘ _Was Meredith hot or just a crazy old bat?_ ’ he asked me.”

Hawke grasped her chest in mock offense. “He did _not._ ”

“Would I lie about that?”

“Yes.”

“Hmm. Drink your ale.”

“So did he say what Andraste looked like?” the soldier asked as Hawke obediently took a sip.

Hawke spluttered, hammering her fist to her chest as she coughed up the ale that almost tasted as good as the shit back at the Hanged Man. Varric flung a handkerchief at her, and it landed on her face. She tugged it off with a scowl.

“Did you hear, Varric?” she asked, somewhat accusingly. “My husband was apparently chosen by Andraste herself.”

Varric gave the soldier a sidelong glance. “I heard,” he answered, carefully.

“So why wasn’t his _wife_ informed?”

The soldier swallowed, leaning back, eyes flicking between the two.

“Because his _wife_ was taking care of her _husband_ and didn’t need to hear about his new nickname,” Varric responded, raising his mug to his lips. “Not until he woke up, anyway.”

Hawke pursed her lips, then rolled her eyes to look up at the ceiling with an extravagant sigh. “Good thing you’re paying for my dinner, too.”

Varric grinned. “Always happy to be of service.”

The soldier, amazingly, had kept her mouth shut for this, but she seemed to nearly burst with questions. Hawke wondered if steam might start pouring out of her ears. Having pity, she waved her hand at the soldier.

“If Fenris was really chosen by Andraste,” Hawke told her, doing her best to withhold her exasperation. “Then we won’t really know until he remembers what happened at the Conclave.” Here, Hawke looked the soldier in the eye. “What’s your name?”

“Amelia, ser.”

“Amelia,” Hawke echoed. She took a sip of her ale. “It’s probably best not to get too excited about rumors. For now—,” she glanced at the bowl in front of Amelia, “—enjoy your soup.”

Amelia nodded, a smile splitting her cheeks into dimples. She threw some change on the table, grabbed her soup, and rushed out of the tavern.

Hawke watched the giddiness in each bounce of her step, then sighed when the door swung shut.

“She’s about to go tell all her friends,” she said, propping her elbow on the table and resting her chin in her hand. She ignored the rustle of motion when several patrons quickly turned back to their business to pretend they hadn’t also been listening.

“Yep,” Varric remarked into his pint.

The barmaid approached the table and set a steaming bowl of broth and a loaf of bread in front of Hawke, muttering a quick, “Enjoy your meal” before shuffling off to take more orders. Hawke blinked down at the soup, narrowed her eyes in suspicion.

“Were you planning on buying this the whole time,” she started, peering at Varric. “Or was this going to go on my tab if I hadn’t said anything?”

“Beats me.”

“I’m touched.”

Hawke ripped a piece of bread and dipped it into the soup, stirring the mysterious contents around. She’d only really just started digging in, when the tavern door opened again, and Cassandra stood on the threshold, scowling and intimidating as ever.

“Nope,” Hawke muttered, leaning in closer to her soup and taking another bite. “Nuh-huh, not while I’m eating,” she said through her food.

Cassandra spotted her and, unbeknownst of Hawke’s quiet protests, strode over like a woman on a mission. It would’ve have been a turn-on for Hawke, had she not already spent and uncomfortable amount of time with her already. Nothing ruins a friendship like getting to know each other.

The rest of the patrons were doing a poor job of disguising their interest.

“Seeker,” Varric greeted, slapping a cheerful grin on his face. “What can we do you for?”

“Champion,” Cassandra spoke, paused, then inclined her head to the dwarf, her lips quirking downward. “Varric.” She turned back to Hawke. “I need to speak with you.”

“Can it wait?” Hawke asked, gesturing to her gradually cooling meal. “I’ve got free dinner and I’d rather not waste it.”

“It won’t take long,” Cassandra replied. She held Hawke’s sour stare with the same steadiness Aveline used with her recruits. It irritated part of her, but the other part just felt homesick.

Hawke sighed, planted her hands on the table and stood up. The chair scraped across the floor, piercing the still quiet of the tavern. She paused, waited. Conversations immediately sprung up around her, the room bustling about again as though nothing had happened. With a nod, she stepped away from the table.

“Don’t run off without paying,” she shot to Varric as she passed.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he replied, taking a sip of his ale.

When Hawke opened the door to leave the tavern—and being blasted with the chill of the night like a splash of water to the face—she saw that Cassandra was already walking away. Toward the Chantry. She slid her jaw to the side, frowning.

“Thought you said it wouldn’t take long,” she called to Cassandra.

“It won’t,” was the short reply.

Maker save her from bloody irritating soldiers—

Hawke trudged up the hill, picking carefully through the muddied path. Firelight from torches and nearby campfires lit the way, though the patches of snow did helpfully reflect the light of the moon, glowing as Fenris’ hair would on a clear night. She clutched her cloak tighter around her shoulders, making a note to find one lined with wool. Or fur.

She threw a glance back at the hut where Fenris still slept, pausing only for a moment before shaking her head and moving on.

Cassandra had left the Chantry doors open, the candlelight pouring onto the steps and flickering when Hawke swept inside. Behind her, a guard shut the door, the final gust of wind making her cloak flutter about her knees. Just ahead, Cassandra fell in line with Leliana, who’d been murmuring to Cullen and another woman with dark skin and a golden-trimmed dress. She held a wooden board with a candle attached in one hand, and a feather quill in the other. They all looked up as Hawke approached.

“Champion,” Leliana greeted, nodding her head to her. “Thank you for coming.”

“Cassandra might have beaten me to a pulp otherwise,” Hawke responded, both as a friendly jab and an accusation of ‘ _like I had a choice_ ’. Cullen hid his mouth behind his hand, poorly disguising a snort.

Cassandra squinted, seemed to be caught between being flattered and offended. Good, that meant she was listening. Before she could respond, however, Leliana cleared her throat and gestured to the other woman.

“This is Lady Josephine Montiliyet,” Leliana said. “Josephine, this is Percy Hawke, Champion of Kirkwall.”

“Well met,” Josephine greeted, her heavy Antivan accent coating her voice. She curtseyed, and Hawke bowed her head shortly to her. Then, she looked between the four.

“So?” she prompted, raising a brow. “Why was my dinner interrupted?”

Leliana glanced sideways at Josephine and Cullen, then spoke, “I’ll get to the point then. We need to discuss what our next step is in the case that your husband doesn’t wake up.”

_Oh_ did that make her metaphorical hackles rise. “Beg pardon?” she said, her tone low, her eyes narrowed in a glare.

“What Leliana is trying to say,” Josephine quickly stepped in, throwing a scolding glare at Leliana. “Is that people have been flocking to the Herald of Andraste in the past week. It’s been a huge help in recovering from the Conclave. But if we can’t give them the Herald, we need to find someone else.”

Hawke was silent for a moment, processing each sentence one at a time. Four days was a long time to stay cooped up next to your unconscious husband, and she’d apparently missed out on a _lot._

She waved her hands in a sweeping gesture. “Okay, _firstly_ , what the hell does that even mean, ‘Herald of Andraste’?” She paused, then glared at them each in turn. “Did you start that?”

“No,” Cassandra responded with forced patience. “But we haven’t stopped it, either.”

“Rumors of Fenris’ survival of the Conclave have spread far, and quickly,” Leliana explained. “It varies as it goes, but the consistent parts include him emerging from the Fade with a woman standing behind him.”

“And they think that woman was Andraste?” Hawke finished. She ran a hand across her face, tangling her fingers through her hair briefly. “A bunch of fools to assume _that_.”

Some sisters in a far corner tutted softly, as though disapproving of Hawke. She ignored them, instead setting her hands on her hips and waiting for someone to continue.

“Are they really fools, though?” Cullen asked, actually meeting her eyes for once. He stroked the light scruff on his chin. “The only survivor of the Conclave bears a magical mark that miraculously closes rifts? It’s either a very lucky coincidence, or something a bit more divine.”

“Divine my _ass_.” Hawke shook her head. “Magic isn’t divine, it’s just _magic._ He’s going to be cross when he wakes up and finds out he’s the new _religious icon._ ”

“ _If_ he wakes up,” Leliana added.

Hawke glared at her. “Do have something to say, Sister Nightingale?”

Leliana’s expression remained passive, so infuriatingly neutral. “Only that we need a plan for every possible scenario. Including one where Andraste’s Herald tragically passes of his wounds.”

Hawke’s hand was immediately at the dagger on her belt. “Threaten my husband one more time, _please_ ,” she hissed. “I’m cranky and my dinner is getting cold, that’s really all it will take.”

“Easy, Hawke,” Cullen raised his hands, intended to pacify. He looked tired in the dim light, the bags under his eyes bigger and darker than they’d been in Kirkwall. He threw a look at Cassandra, whose hand was gripping her sword. “We’re not making threats, and we’re not here to pick fights with you.”

“Do enlighten me.”

Josephine spoke up. “If he wakes up, then he can be a symbol to inspire the people,” she said, twirling her quill in her fingers. “And, if he stays, we can extend our protection to him.”

Hawke slowly withdrew her hand from her dagger. “Protection from what?”

“The Chantry caught word of this Herald of Andraste, and they aren’t pleased,” Leliana offered. She lifted her hand to tap at her chin. “They’ve labeled him a heretic, and some clerics and mothers would see him imprisoned.”

“And how exactly would you prevent that from happening?”

Leliana glanced at Cassandra, who nodded. “We plan on forming an official group, one aimed at repairing the damages caused by the destruction of the Conclave,” she said, her eyes piercing Hawke even in the dark. “Including both closing the Breach and cleaning up the last bits of conflict between the mages and templars.”

Hawke squinted at her, carefully connecting each dot. She didn’t like the conclusion one bit. “You want Fenris to be the leader of this group.”

“It doesn’t have to be official just yet,” Josephine added. “He’d be more of a symbol to give the people hope, a head piece, at least for now. The stories already sprouting up about him could aid his cause.”

“ _Your_ cause,” Hawke retorted. “You haven’t even asked him yet.”

“We cannot,” Cassandra said, nodding. “Which is why we’re asking you, an alternative head piece should the Herald remain incapacitated.”

And if _that_ wasn’t a righteous punch to the gut. Hawke almost felt winded. They waited for her response, quietly looking upon her as if she held the answers to the universe. The nobles and beggars alike had given her the same look back in Kirkwall. It hadn’t worked out so well for them when she ran out of answers to give, in the end.   

She balled her hands into fists, breathing slowly through her nose.

“Sorry to disappoint,” Hawke muttered. She met their gazes, jutting out her chin. “But if Fenris doesn’t wake up, I’ll be gone soon after.”

Was it wrong to refuse to help a worthy, world-saving cause? Maybe. But if she couldn’t save one city, then her help wasn’t what they needed.

Varric would forgive her. Eventually.

“And if he does?” Leliana prompted. “If he accepts our offer?”

Hawke didn’t have to think hard on that one. “Then I’ll stick around, of course.”

Cullen nodded. “That’s all we can ask.”

When Hawke returned to the tavern, her soup was cold. She sighed as she sat down, ignoring Varric’s questioning look for now.

She wished Fenris would wake up soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> did i skip the entire first boss fight? i sure did. y'all can let me know if you want a tidbit on it, because otherwise it's not gonna get written.
> 
> hoped you enjoyed it! i'll try for more action in the next chapter.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris wakes up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a filler chapter, but I always like those. I'll get to more exciting things maybe next chapter.

For the second time in less than a week, Fenris woke with a pounding head, a dry mouth, and stiff, aching muscles. His back and rear screamed a previously unheard protest of his lack of movement for however long he’d been laying here. Even his markings were sore, similar to his days in Minrathous when he’d yet to grow accustomed to using them.

Pins pricked in the palm of his left hand, shooting a strange tension through the lyrium in his markings. Still, it was notably a lesser pain than the moments just before his memory blacked out.

The agony of receiving his markings had always haunted him as the worst pain he could ever experience, ever even _imagine._ But now, Fenris was faced with a new contender that threatened to beat that memory into submission by sheer existence. When he’d raised his hand to close the rift, the first of its kind, his body had been consumed by fire and ice, burning him from the inside out. The last thing he’d seen was the lyrium in his markings flashing brighter than he’d ever seen, as though fueled by something greater than mere magic.

An ache flared in his hand, and Fenris realized he’d been clenching it. He forced himself to relax, to allow the tension to flow down his fingers.

A warm, heavy weight was settled on his abdomen, he suddenly noticed, and it curled against his side. The smell of dog breath greeted his nose, and he finally peeled his stinging eyes open.

The grey light of dawn crept through the window, hardly casting a shadow. A few embers still burned in the otherwise dark fireplace. Frost spread across the glass panes in intricate patterns, a design never to be seen again once it melted.

On Fenris’ other side, sitting awkwardly in a chair with her head nuzzled in the crook of her arms that rested on the bed, was Hawke. She breathed slowly, softly, sound asleep. Several mugs and bowls littered the floor around her, and Fenris felt a pang. How long had he been out this time?

Bean raised his massive head, the change in Fenris’ breathing having woken him up. He stared at Fenris for a moment as he blinked awake, then his tail started thumping on the mattress.

“Hush that,” Fenris murmured, sparing a glance to Hawke in case the noise had disturbed her. She slept on. He released a breath, then lifted his stiff arm to scratch behind Bean’s ears. He was rewarded with a lick to his fingers.

Fenris looked at Hawke again, not wanted to wake her with his movements, but he had to relieve himself. Maker forbid that he might need assistance for the task. He slowly, carefully, pushed himself into a sitting position. Goosebumps prickled his skin as the blankets fell and frigid air met his body. He was just about to slip his legs from under the blanket when Bean stood up, stretched, then reached across Fenris with his front paw and lightly batted at Hawke’s arm.

Fenris started to protest, “Bean, _don’t_ —!” when Hawke’s head shot up. Her eyes were barely open, and blotchy red creases spread across her cheek and forehead from where her shirt sleeve had imprinted.

“Bwuh?” she murmured eloquently, her voice cutting off with a yawn. Then, she blinked, her eyes widening. “Oh!”

She reached for his hand without a thought, and he laced his fingers with hers.

“I didn’t want to wake you,” Fenris spoke softly, throwing a sidelong glance at Bean. His tail thumped.

“No, I’m glad.” Hawke brought his hand to her lips, kissing it gently, warming his knuckles with her breath. “You’re awake.” Her voice was hoarse, only just concealing a tremble that made his heart ache.

He leaned forward, pressed his lips to hers. They breathed together a moment, foreheads touching, eyes closed, before the ache in his back forced him to draw away.

In the gradually increasing light, Fenris could make out the dark shadows under her eyes, the way her skin was flushed with exhaustion. She leaned back into a stretch, arms reaching and pulling tight. He saw how they shook.

“How long?” he asked.  

Hawke’s lips pursed as she fought against a frown.

“This is the fifth morning,” she replied.

Fenris nodded, trying to save the unbidden guilt to be dealt with later. Instead, he grimaced. “That would explain the full bladder, then.”

Hawke snorted, pushing herself from the chair and whistling to Bean. “Alright, dears, bathroom break.”

To Fenris’ displeasure, he did in fact need to be helped out of bed. His muscles screamed from disuse, and he wavered on his feet as Bean plopped down to the floor and offered his head for Fenris to steady himself with. Hawke’s hand hovered at his elbow as she helped him drape a cloak around his shoulders, though he was quietly grateful she didn’t try to support his weight. If he did stumble, she’d be there.

When they stepped outside, the brisk air bit at his skin, stabbing at the inside of his nose. Still, he breathed in the frost, imagining it cleansing his body as it flowed through his lungs and escaped his mouth in a cloud.

After he and Bean relieved themselves behind the cabin, Fenris turned to Hawke. “I would like to take a walk.”

Hawke nodded. “A short one. You should wear your boots.”

“If it is short, I won’t need them.”

“Oh, so I suppose you don’t recall complaining about your frostbitten toes? _I_ do.”

Fenris tightened his cloak, muttering, “It isn’t _that_ cold,” even as the chilled earth numbed the soles of his bare feet.   

In the end, Fenris compromised with a pair of warm slippers, much to Hawke’s amusement.

Beams of weak light crept over the trees as the morning bloomed and steadily banished the dawn’s frost. Fenris allowed Hawke to lead him around the village, pausing each time Bean found something to sniff. Though he knew Hawke would never tease him for it, Fenris had to duck his head to hide his warmed ears, embarrassed that he was at all grateful for the small breaks and the slow pace they made. He took Hawke’s offered hand, allowed himself to pretend he simply wanted the contact.

As they meandered around, Hawke mumbled small stories about Haven and its inhabitants, about how that bartender was sweet, the alchemist over there—the one that patched him up—was hilariously rude, those Sisters weren’t as “pure” as they ought to be and were probably aware of it, and so on. It wasn’t with the same familiarity as, say, the residents of Kirkwall, but it was better than the vague animosity Fenris had been expecting.

He ran his thumb across her knuckles, and she lightly squeezed his hand in return.

They passed the front gate, where the dawn guards paced the perimeter, nodding as they went.

One of them, to Fenris’ startlement, even gave him a short bow. Fenris first looked behind him to see who the guard could possibly be bowing to, then turned to Hawke with a quizzical stare when they moved on.

Hawke tapped his wrist. “I’ll explain later,” she murmured to him. “Would you like to see Solas? He asked to see you i—when you woke up.”

Fenris carefully ignored the slip. “Later,” he replied. “I think I’d like a meal, first.”

“The tavern it is.”

* * *

“The Herald of _what?_ ”

The tavern was empty save for themselves and the barkeep, who had nearly dropped the stack of plates she’d been carrying when her eyes landed on him. After a stammering string of apologies, she quickly prepared a meal from yesterday’s leftovers. She’d offered an extra, fresh meal along with, but a rather confused Fenris declined.

Now, Fenris stared at Hawke, mouth ajar, a piece of bread held just in front of his lips. Hawke sat across from him, idly picking apart her own bread. She grimaced. “Apparently,” she spoke carefully. “Andraste herself pulled you out of the Fade, hand-chosen to deliver justice or—or restore balance or… something of that nature.”

A few crumbs fell from the bread in his hand to the floor, where Bean lapped them up, as though he didn’t already have an entire pig leg to himself.

Fenris leaned back in his chair, stumped. Just a few days ago, he’d been the primary suspect behind the explosion. Everyone had eyed him with suspicion, a stark contrast to the fumbling awe that was now starting to make sense.

Hawke stared at the shredded bits of bread she’d made a mess of. “Cassandra, Cullen—they all approached me last night.”

Fenris looked up, eyes narrowing in attention. “About?”

She grimaced again, and set her plate on the floor for Bean before continuing. “I think they want you to be the figurehead of some organization they’re creating, but they asked me to fill in just in case you—.” She shook her head. “Regardless. They might ask a lot from you next chance they get. Be ready.”

Heat flashed in his chest, and he scowled. “Of course they will,” he muttered, his fists clenching. “They likely intend to use me for diplomatic gain. The husband of Kirkwall’s Champion, the newest icon of the Chantry’s latest sham.”

Hawke snorted, but she hardly looked amused. “For once, I don’t think the Chantry’s behind this. And, you can always say no.”

She sounded almost hopeful, carefully hidden behind her pursed lips and set jaw. It was tempting, considering he probably _would_ have refused just a week ago.

He leaned forward, bracing his elbows on the table and lacing his fingers together in front of his lips. A ball of dread grew in his gut as he thought, his mind running scenarios and sorting through what he knew, and what could be.

“Are you certain the Chantry doesn’t support this?” he asked.

Hawke scoffed. “In their eyes, you’re a heretic,” she said. “They’d probably prefer you in jail or… otherwise.”

Fenris breathed through his nose. It didn’t surprise him, but it made things more difficult.

He thought of the long nights of travel, fleeing from Kirkwall to draw away attention from the remaining mages. The decision to leave hadn’t been made lightly, and it had pained Hawke to do so. She much preferred to stay and defend. He wondered if she’d prefer that now.

Regardless, Fenris didn’t want to subject Hawke to more running away. The toll it had taken on her peeked through the frown lines on her brow, the tension in her shoulders, the uneasy crackling of her magic. He'd rather not add to it.

“If Cassandra and the others want me to stay,” he thought aloud. “They will likely try to offer us protection, as the Chantry would try to hunt us down and try us for blasphemy, perhaps treason.”

“Don’t forget murder.”

“Of the Divine, no less,” Fenris agreed. He leaned back in his chair. “I don’t like the idea of staying, but we’d be fools not to consider it.”

Hawke sighed, mirroring Fenris’ stance and crossing her arms. “Bollocks.”

Fenris nodded. “We will hear what they have to say.”

* * *

“From the looks of it,” Solas spoke, gently turning Fenris’ hand over in his own. “The mark has stabilized. At least to the point of being non-lethal.”

They’d stopped by Solas’ cabin, where he was sorting through a pile of scrolls that cluttered the bed, the floor, and the desk. Some of them appeared old, frayed and yellowed. As Fenris was examined, Hawke poked through a few of them with an idle curiosity.

“Joyous,” Fenris said flatly, his expression deadpan. He withdrew his hand, resisting the urge to wipe it on his shirt. Solas’ magic was strange, caressing his skin like it had been water. Where Hawke’s magic was sharp, like an electric current crackling over anything it touched, this elf’s magic was fluid, and possessed an age Fenris couldn’t comprehend. How old _was_ this man?

Hawke snorted, then covered her mouth to pass it off as a cough.

“Indeed,” Solas replied. He tucked his hands behind his back. “Do you feel any pain?”

 _Yes._ “Some.”

“I see.” Solas frowned, crossed his arms in front of him and stroked his chin. “If you’re willing, I’d like to witness how the mark interacts with the lyrium in your body. It could provide insight into separating the two.”

Fenris scowled. “You want me to activate the lyrium?”

“Only if you’re willing,” Solas repeated. “I won’t ask it of you if the pain is too much.”

Fenris considered, throwing a look to Hawke.

She shrugged. “If it’s a step toward getting rid of it, I’d say go for it.” She turned to Solas. “Could you wait for another time, when he’s regained his strength?”

“Of course.”

Fenris rolled his eyes, then lifted his marked hand. “I’d prefer to get it out of the way. Watch closely, mage.”

Solas nodded, sharpening his attention.

Hawke tapped the back of his elbow, then retreated a distance so her magic wouldn’t interfere too much with his lyrium. They were secluded in this small complex, safe from curious eyes. It made lighting the lyrium much easier.

They flickered to life, and Fenris clenched his hand against the sharp pain lancing up his arm. He grit his teeth, noticing only now that his left arm glowed a brighter, sharper light than the rest of his body. The implication unnerved him.

“Alright,” Solas spoke, and Fenris let his markings fade.

He was sore all over again, as though pins and needles raced through each vein of lyrium. He gripped his forearm, kneading at the muscles in hopes to soothe the irritation.

Solas’ brow furrowed in deep thought, and he tapped his chin. “The energy from the mark is seeping into your lyrium,” he said.

Hawke was at his side again. “How can you tell?” she asked.

“The markings around his hand and wrist were a tad greener than the rest of them.”

Fenris blinked, looking down at his clenched fist. He glowered at it. “I told you we should have cut it off.”

Hawke gave Fenris a flat look, but Solas spoke before she could argue.

“The process appears slow,” he said, staring at Fenris’ hand, studying it. “If it has any ill effects, they won’t take root until much later. By then, I hope we can find a way to _safely_ remove the mark.”

He emphasized “safely”, and though he didn’t look at Fenris, it was clear he knew how Fenris would _prefer_ it removed.

“Is that what’s causing the pain?” Hawke asked. Her eyes drifted towards his hand, her brow pinched, lips pursed in a frown.

Solas nodded. “Lyrium responds to any sort of magic,” he said. “This marking is a result of a magic directly from the Fade. If your markings already had a history of discomfort, it would make sense for the new marking to exacerbate it.” Here, he titled his head. “That isn’t good news, of course.”

Fenris gestured to the mess of scrolls. “I take it you’re looking for answers?”

Solas’ lip quirked, and he turned his head to glance at the scrolls. “Lady Cassandra has generously granted me access to Haven’s library. Unfortunately, it’s somewhat lacking in records of magical properties, so my search hasn’t proved fruitful just yet.”

Fenris resisted a sigh, even as his hand prickled.

“If you’d like,” Hawke spoke. “I could send for the books from my library in Kirkwall. The Amell family had quite the collection of the boring, technical books. Varric could certainly find _something._ ”

“Boring and technical are what we need,” Solas replied, inclining his head. “Thank you, I’ll speak to Varric about this.”

Fenris nodded to him. “I appreciate your help.”

“My pleasure.”

Fenris and Hawke stepped through the doorway, back into the cold. Hawke glanced at him, the corner of her lips twitching in a smile.

“What?” Fenris asked as they walked.

“Nothing,” Hawke said, blinking innocently. “Your scowl is just a handsome thing.”

Heat flashed in his cheeks, and he pressed his ears to his head to hide the red flush he felt there. Hawke laughed, and he shook his head to clear it.

“My scowl is justified,” he said, raising his marked hand. “We still know nothing about this curse.”

Hawke nodded. “True,” she said. “I think I know what would make you feel better.”

“Oh?”

“Cassandra uses a longsword. Maybe she could teach you how to use it.”

Fenris considered. His body still ached, and he couldn’t move nearly as quick as he’d like. But some beginner’s lessons wouldn’t be a terrible idea, and he liked the idea of moving around and regaining his strength.

“Alright,” he agreed. “But you have to ask her.”

He cackled at Hawke’s groan, ducking when she swatted at him.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke really, really doesn't like Templars. Or figures of authority. Or the Chantry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hate using the script from the game, since everyone has (probably) already seen it. But, sometimes, you just need it.

“ _Must_ we?” Hawke asked, a whine creeping into her voice.

“We must,” Fenris responded. He didn’t break his steady, albeit slow, stride through the dim Chantry.

The spices of the Chantry incense tickled Hawke’s nose, which she wrinkled in distaste. If this was what she had to smell each time they were summoned, it’d start bordering on torture. Some natural light filtered through the colorful stain glass windows, creating a pleasant pool of painted light on the stone floor. She and Fenris stepped through the sunbeam, blocking it with their shadows for a brief moment before continuing into the dark. 

Hawke sighed. “I’d really rather not talk to Mr. and Mrs. Templar again. I get a headache every time I so much as exchange a _hello_ with them.”

Fenris snorted. “I believe Lady Cassandra is a Seeker.”

“As far as I can tell, they’re essentially shiny, fancier Templars,” Hawke replied. They drew closer to the door at the opposite end of the Chantry, where Cassandra had requested they meet. Hawke’s stomach sank lower and lower as they approached. A pair of Sisters and some other official looking person huddled next to a barrel covered in candles, their hushed conversation an irritating murmur in Hawke’s ears.

Fenris touched his fingers to hers, and some of the tension in her shoulders faded.

“Whatever happens in there,” he said, soft and warm, as he turned his head towards her. “We stay together.”

Hawke melted a little inside, and she struggled a brief moment to come up with a light quip. Outrageous, that he could still do that to her. “Of course,” she managed to choke out. “We must be joined at the hip by now. Can’t get rid of me that easy, no ser.”

Fenris’ lips twitched, a chuckle escaping past them.

If he had intended on saying anything else, however, it was lost when they came within earshot of raised voices beyond the door.

“—and if you think the Champion’s presence, of _all_ people, hasn’t gone unnoticed—!”

Hawke pointedly looked to Fenris and rolled her eyes.

“The Champion has proven helpful, unlike you.” That was Cassandra. Odd that she had anything nice to say about Hawke.

“How dare you! I should have every one of you imprisoned—!”

Fenris shook his head, then stepped forward and pushed open the door.

Three sets of eyes turned on them as they entered the room, with all the subtlety of an Antivan flamingo. The man, the obnoxious cleric that had no skill other than finger pointing, proceeded to point his finger at them.

“Chain them!” he ordered the guards in the room. “I want them prepared for travel to the capitol for trial!”

“Disregard that,” Cassandra said. She pushed off the table, her brow pinched in annoyance. Then, to the guards, “Leave us.”

The guards immediately obeyed. Hawke smothered a grin with her hand as an angry pout twisted the cleric’s features. What was his name? Roger? Robert? Roderick?

“Why are you siding with the prisoner and the rebel apostate?” he bit out, gesturing towards them with a slash of his hand.

“Oh, I’m a rebel now?” Hawke retorted. “That’s new.”

Cassandra scowled at her but looked back to Roderick. “I do not believe they are guilty.”

“Rather convenient that they still live after being ‘ _helpful_ ’’.

“I did not risk my life for _pleasure_ , cleric,” Fenris said, stepping forward. “You have little to base your suspicions on.”

Roderick’s nostrils flared. “I have _plenty!_ ”

“Besides,” Leliana added, making a small show of checking her nails, despite the gloves that covered them. “You’re higher on the list than them.”

“List?” Roderick echoed. “I’m a _suspect_?”

“You, and many others.”

“But _not_ the prisoner.”

“I was there at the Temple,” Cassandra snapped. “I heard the voices, and the _Divine_ called _him_ for help.” She gestured at Fenris with a sweep of her arm.

The cleric leaned forward, his chest puffing up like a fussing cat. “So, his survival, and that _thing_ on his hand—it’s all a coincidence?” He bit out the last word as though it tasted foul on the way down his tongue.

“Providence,” Cassandra replied. “The Maker sent him in our darkest hour.”

Hawke couldn’t suppress the snort that escaped her. She glanced at Fenris, saw the annoyed look in his narrowed eyes.

“ _He_ is still standing here,” he said, his lip curling. “And I am not your ‘chosen one’.”

Cassandra looked as though she wanted to argue, but she closed her mouth again. Instead, she said to Roderick, “But we have more to worry about than placing blame. The Breach is still a threat, and I will _not_ ignore it.”

Roderick puffed his reddened cheeks as Cassandra turned to reach for something behind her. A strange quiet filled the room, even as the rustling of pages rang out like an old song. Hawke craned her neck to see a thick, heavy, leather-bound book emerging from the shadows of the bookshelf.

Roderick opened his mouth, recognition sparking in his eyes, “You cannot—!”

Cassandra slammed it on the table. “You know what this is, Chancellor?” she asked. “This is a writ from the Divine, granting us authority to act. From this moment, I declare the Inquisition reborn.”

It sounded like it could be a powerful statement, but, somehow, it felt anticlimactic.

Cassandra, with fire in her eyes, stepped into Roderick’s space, jabbing her finger at his chest as she went. “We will close the Breach, we will find those responsible, and we will restore order. With or without your help.”

Roderick glowered at Cassandra, but said nothing, and turned to leave. Hawke wiggled her fingers at him as he stormed out, a grin dancing on her lips. He didn’t look her way, but his mouth twisted in an unpleasant fashion.

“What is this Inquisition?” Fenris asked, eyeing the book.

“It must have been before the Chantry,” Hawke added. “It doesn’t sound like something they’d approve of.”

Cassandra looked at him. “Before the Templars, there was the Inquisition.” She rested her hand on the book. “People who banded together to fight against chaos. After, they lay down their banners and became the Templar Order. But the Templars have lost their way.”

“An understatement,” Hawke added under her breath. A nudge on her arm from Fenris.

“With the Chantry looking to villainize us, and Thedas in chaos,” Cassandra continued, sparing Hawke only a single glare. “We need the Inquisition once more.”

“To close the Breach,” Leliana said. “We’ll need as many resources as we can get.”

Fenris lifted his hand to look at it. After drawing the curious eyes of the village’s inhabitants, he’d decided to cover the mark with a dark, leather glove. An elegant, stylish choice, Hawke thought. The furrow in his brow, however, told her much.

“I suppose that means you’ll be wanting this,” he said.

“As of now, it is our only solution,” Cassandra replied with a nod.

“Not to mention the dozens of reports of rifts scattered across the country,” Leliana added.

Hawke didn’t like the sound of that. She stepped forward. “Does Fenris truly need to be the one to close the rifts?” she asked. “Each time he uses it, he’s rendered incapacitated. Can’t we find another way?”

A hand touched hers. Hawke looked at Fenris. His expression was a mix of emotions, but she found resignation.

“I can endure,” he said.

Hawke’s chest tightened.

“Does that mean you’ll help?” Cassandra asked.

Fenris turned to her. “Not until you answer some questions.”

Leliana nodded. “Ask away.”

A glance to Hawke, then he spoke. “Will you provide us protection from the Chantry?”

Cassandra and Leliana shared a look, both nodding to a silent question.

“The Chantry will only slow our efforts to restore Thedas,” Leliana answered. “We will do our best to keep you out of their hands.”

“Glad to know it’s not just the grace of your heart,” Hawke quipped. She crossed her arms, shifting into a thoughtful stance. “So you want to seal the Breach,” she repeated. “How do you plan on doing that, just out of curiosity?”

“Firstly, we need to gain the support of as many allies as we can find,” Cassandra answered.

Hawke blinked, slowly, as something clicked into place. “Oh. That’s the _other_ reason you need Fenris.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Fenris give her a questioning look. But she kept her gaze fixed on the women before her. They were going to milk every last bit of usefulness out of him. She pressed her lips together.

“Like we told you before,” Leliana said. “People are flocking to the idea of a holy prophet sent by Andraste.”

“Which I am not,” Fenris said, flicking his hand dismissively. His shoulders had tensed, and Hawke could see his jaw clench.

“How can you be certain?” Cassandra asked, jumping on the chance to debate the topic. She stepped towards him and gestured vaguely at him. “You said yourself you couldn’t remember what happened.”

Fenris narrowed his eyes. “I somehow doubt Andraste would choose a Champion and withhold pertinent information from them.”

Cassandra looked as though she wanted to argue further, even opened her mouth with a retort on her tongue, but Leliana held her hand out to stop her. “Regardless of whether it’s truth or not,” she said. She reached and lightly touched the great book resting atop the table map. “An idea, a symbol, is a powerful thing. We must show the world we’re here to help, and letting them believe in the Herald of Andraste could aid us.”

“You’d have me march about as a false prophet?” Fenris said, lowly. His mouth pressed into a tight, grim line.

_Sheesh_. “That’s almost as bad as the Chantry,” Hawke said. She paused, lifted a finger to her mouth. “Well, _maybe_ worse.”

Cassandra glowered at her. “While I realize it has its faults, I’m curious to know what it is you have against the Chantry”

“Oh, it might be quicker to say what I _don’t_ have against the Chantry. Which would be the little bakeries they have, have you tried their tarts?”

“Enough,” Leliana cut in with a sharp look at both. Cassandra scowled, but looked away. “We will have time later to debate. Have you made your decision?”

Hawke looked to Fenris, who met her gaze. His brow pinched in a way that indicated a difficult thought.

Hawke shrugged. “It’s like you said,” she told him. “I’m with you, whatever you decide.”

Fenris closed his eyes, let out a breath. He looked… strained, as though he’d rather not be the one _making_ decisions. Hawke could relate. More than anything, she wanted to take Fenris as far away from here as possible. The last thing he needed was the responsibility of being a symbol, a beacon, something to be stripped of humanity until it’s the perfect being, and cast aside after one mistake.

But, this was the only way to figure out how to fix his hand. Her eyes flickered to the glove he wore, forced herself to look away again.

Fenris turned back to Cassandra and Leliana with a steady, determined look.

“We have conditions,” he finally spoke.

Leliana nodded, signaling him to continue.

“I will not operate under false pretenses,” Fenris began. “If I am asked, I will be truthful about… not being a prophet.”

Cassandra scowled, but said only, “Anything else?”

“We will make use of the protections offered by the Inquisition,” he continued. He crossed his arms, raised a thoughtful finger to his chin. “And extend that protection to Varric as well.”

“Of course.”

“We’ll also need funds,” Hawke added.

Fenris sent her a flat look.

“What? We need supplies. Gear. Food. Those sorts of things.”

“Do you plan on looting about, selling everything you find?”

Hawke lightly shoved his good arm. “Shut up.”

“We will attend to those matters,” Leliana said. She drew closer, walking around the table to stand before them. “In the meantime, Cullen and Josephine will be here shortly to discuss strategies.”

Hawke stared at her. “You really weren’t counting on us saying _no_ , were you? And—wait, why _Cullen_?”

“He will oversee the military operations,” she replied. “He has extensive battle experience, and he will be training the soldiers.”

Hawke dropped her jaw. A pool of dread started growing in her gut. A _Templar_ training the soldiers? The crisp memory of Cullen wearing the uniform of the Order flashed behind her eyes. She shooed it away, fighting to return to the present. She was no longer in Kirkwall, and Meredith couldn’t hurt her from the afterlife.

Well. Apparently _Corypheus_ could.

“What,” Hawke managed, quickly recovering. “Is he giving them lyrium as well? I’m _not_ sharing mine.”

Cassandra’s jaw clenched, and she stared at Hawke with contempt for a solid moment before taking a breath. “Perhaps you haven’t heard,” she said with forced calm. “But Commander Cullen is no longer a Templar. He will train soldiers how to fight and protect, that is all.”

“That’s nice, but how’s he going to train the mages?”

Fenris gave her a _look_ , one that she was going to heartily ignore for now.

Cassandra and Leliana, on the other hand, exchanged a glance before Leliana leaned with her rear against the table and opened her mouth, “Commander Cullen has enough experience watching how mages train, I’m sure he’ll do fine for now. If not, we’ll attend to it once our other priorities have been sorted.”

Hawke made a mental _hmph_ to herself. That had simply been a fancy way of saying _We have no clue and we’ll figure it out as we go._ Which, honestly, she could somewhat respect.

“So,” Cassandra spoke, holding her hand out to Fenris. “Have we come to an agreement?”

He stared at the hand blankly for a moment, eyes darting briefly towards Hawke. Then, he sighed, and reached to grasp Cassandra’s hand.

“It seems we have little choice,” he said, softly.

They shook once, and Cassandra held his gaze. “Welcome to the Inquisition.”

* * *

“I can’t _believe_ him,” Hawke hissed through her teeth as she brought her training staff down on Fenris’ wooden blade. “The _Templars_ sealing the Breach?” _Thwack._ “Our dear commander is a _fool!_ ” _Thwack._

Fenris blocked her strikes one after another, deflecting the last and pivoting to dodge a kick.

“He _is_ a Templar,” he pointed out, swinging his sword in an arc towards her torso. She brought her staff to meet it, blocking it with a resounding _clack_. “He possesses insight we might not have.”

“Maybe,” Hawke said, panting. She ducked under another strike and aimed low, this time for his feet. “But what could they even do?” She feinted to left. “Suppress it out of existence?”

Fenris jumped over the swipe of her staff. “Cullen believes so.”

_Clack_. “It’s _magic_ ,” she retorted. “Let the _trained mages_ handle it.”

The civil discussion they’d had with those behind the Inquisition’s creation had gone as well as she’d expected—that is, annoying, tiring, and borderline infuriating. Hawke had yet to build a tolerance to them.

Leliana and Cassandra, surprising Hawke, had suggested to approach the rebel mages for aid in closing the Breach, as Fenris couldn’t possibly do it by himself. “Pouring magic into it”, as Cassandra aptly put. But then, of course, Cullen had another idea.

_And I still disagree_ , he’d said. _The Templars could serve just as well._

Hawke had promptly told him to shove it.

“Would the rebel mages be any better than the Templars?” Fenris asked as he dipped backward to avoid another strike. “A substantial amount of magic without someone to check it feels… unwise.”

Hawke threw her weight into her next strike, irritation twisting about in her chest enough that she needed to disperse the energy. It was clear that Fenris was still wary about magic, as well he should be, but hearing him echo the “concerns” of the Chantry and their stupid, bloody Templars made her skin crawl.

His eyes widened a fraction, enough to indicate that she’d surprised him. She huffed, looked away.

“If…” Hawke started, twirling her staff. “If Cassandra is serious about this Inquisition, I— I think…” She twisted her mouth, trying to form a coherent thought without saying something horrendously stupid. “The mages have no one, no protection, not since the Circles were dissolved. A desperate mage is a dangerous one, you know this. If this Inquisition becomes strong enough, perhaps _we_ could ensure their protection as well as prevent their eventual snowball of desperation.”

She glanced back at Fenris, saw the pinch in his brow, and the lack of a downturned lip. He was considering, and relief started flushing away the irritation from before.

“I see your point,” Fenris finally said. “I don’t like the idea of associating with them, considering…” He trailed off, then shook his head to discard the thought. Still, Hawke knew where he was heading, and it was in the direction of _Anders_. She was quietly glad Fenris didn’t continue with it. “But having them near, if only to keep an eye on them, might be the better idea.”

Hawke’s shoulders fell, the tension she’d held there releasing as though Fenris had personally lifted a weight from them. Well, perhaps he had.

With that, she surged forward with her staff raised.

Fenris darted around the staff, almost like a dance. No matter how Hawke struck, she couldn’t land a solid hit on him. It’d make sense if he’d been more of a rogue than a warrior, and yet here he was, light on his feet while swinging around a heavy sword with a delicious frown of concentration written in his brow. Completely unfair.

The sword then bumped against Hawke’s staff, startling her out her thoughts.

“You’re thinking rather hard about something again,” he said, flicking his sword in a casual arc with his wrist.

Hawke grinned. “Would you believe me if I said it was about you?”

Fenris blinked, his face and ears reddening, contrasting with the forced neutral expression. It quickly turned into one of surprise, however, when Hawke spun and dramatically cut the air with her staff. It stopped just at his throat. Fenris swallowed.

“Cheater,” he said.

“Learned that one from—”

“Isabela?”

“Varric, actually.”

A chuckle escaped his lips. The light of the afternoon sun filtered through the pines overhead, dappled across his skin in contrast to his markings. A handsome picture.

They’d found a quiet space just on the edges of Haven to spar. Hawke had made sure she went a little slower for Fenris, as his movement were sluggish and unsteady. At first, his brow had twisted in a frustrated fashion, lips curling in distaste for his state, which only made him prone to losing his focus.

Still, as he warmed up and fell into a familiar rhythm, Hawke could see the tension easing out of his shoulders, and his footwork was all the nimbler. The smile on his face was one she’d been waiting for. She cheered to herself, quietly.

Fenris raised his sword again, and Hawke fell into a defensive stance.

“How far have you gotten on your longsword training?” she asked, twirling her staff idly.

A scowl replaced the smile, and Hawke wanted to kick herself. But he shook his head of it and raised his arms in a strike position.

“I’ve used longswords many times before,” Fenris said between grunts as he brought his sword to her staff. _Clack_ , _clack_. “I do not recall having my other arm tied behind my back.”

Hawke blinked, nearly stumbled under a blow, but managed to use the momentum to divert the attack. “Was that Cassandra’s idea?”

“Varric’s, actually,” Fenris replied, echoing her. Hawke swung her staff at his head, and he ducked with a laugh. “I kept using both hands, so he _gleefully_ gave me the advice.” He blocked another strike from Hawke. “I looked like a staggering fool, but I think Lady Cassandra might have smiled.”

“Smiled?” Hawke repeated, stepping back to avoid swing of the sword. “You’re certain it wasn’t a scowl?

“The corners of her mouth were upturned, as I recall.”

“Incredible. Perhaps you’ll be struck by lightning next.”

“Perhaps.” Fenris spun and let his sword fall in a graceful arc. “Does it storm often in the Hinterlands?”

Hawke blinked, then felt her features drop into a scowl of her own. She’d forgotten, they’d be traveling to some camp close to Redcliffe tomorrow. She didn’t understand why _they_ had to go, wasn’t there someone else that could speak to some Chantry Mother? Didn’t the Hands of Divine know her history of fucking up a perfectly good mission? Her track record wasn’t a pretty sight.

Then again, Fenris might have a better chance at succeeding than she. The man was wired with a sharp mind and a fierce heart. Even if he wasn’t some stupid prophet, he’d be a man worthy to lead.

A strange thought, she realized, since Fenris abhorred the idea of any sort of leadership.

She huffed. “You’d have more luck in the—hah!— _Storm_ Coast.” She hid a snigger behind her hand. “Because, you know—”

“Storms, yes,” Fenris retorted with a deadpan look. He reached for a low branch, heavy with snow. “Most insightful.”

“I’m a fountain of wisdom—no _don’t_ do that—!”

Hawke squealed as she found herself smothered in a handful of gratuitous snow. Icy drops slid down her shirt and she bucked around trying to free herself of it. All the while, laughter like music became a harmony to her squawks, escaping past Fenris’ lips in a cloud.

Fenris wiped his brow with the back of his hand as he breathed deeply, throwing Hawke another small smile. “Let us call it a day,” he said. While he no longer swayed on his feet after such exertion, he still appeared a little faint. His eyes squinted just a little more than normal, as though he were focusing on remaining steady, but nothing else gave him away. A meal and rest would do him well.

Hawke nodded. “Hopefully we can find an unoccupied bath.”

That was the other thing she liked about Chantries, she distantly realized. The hidden baths, only accessible to those who ask nicely. Below the Chantry, opposite from the dungeon, existed a room just large enough to dig a few holes in the ground and pass them off as baths. Still, they were useable, and it was a moment to celebrate if you ever got one to yourself.

They strode back to the village, side by side, the sun warming their backs. The harsh clangs of metal filled the air as they passed the training ground. Several soldiers looked up, nudged each other and covered their murmurs with their hands. Hawke did her best to ignore it, though she noticed Fenris’ ears press closer to his skull. She tapped her fingers to his.

The Chantry soon came into view as they slowly ascended Haven’s incline. At first, it was a lovely picture of sunlit brick and wood. Then, angry shouts wrenched her attention to the front step of the temple.

Her heart stumbled over a beat when several Templar emblems screamed in her vision. At least half a dozen Templars facing off with a group of—of _course_ —mages, all before the eyes of Andraste. Hawke narrowed her eyes and pushed her heel from the ground with a little more force.

“Careful, Hawke,” Fenris murmured. Still she felt his presence just behind her, always her support.

“You traitors!” one bold Templar all but screeched. “You murdered Our Most Holy!”

The lead mage scoffed. “Nonsense,” he responded. “It was your people who killed her!”

“How dare—!” The Templar’s hand wrapped around the hilt of his sword, just as Hawke approached, chin lifted stubbornly and a deep glare pinching her brow.

“Draw that sword, Ser Templar,” she uttered, stepping closer to him. “And you’ll find yourself without a hand to wield it.”

The Templar rounded on her, blazing fury faltering only for a second as he blinked in recognition. Then, incredibly, he became angrier than before.

“Champion,” the mage behind her spoke. “This isn’t your fight.”

“It bloody well is!” the Templar spat and planted himself in her face. She wrinkled her nose at the musky scent of digested broth. “You blew up one Chantry and started the whole rebellion.” He jabbed a finger at her. “It’s obvious who’s _really_ responsible!”

Hawke glanced at Fenris. “Why am I always the first to blame?”

He shook his head, but his response was cut off by a sudden movement, the sound of metal scraping against metal mixing with the angry cries and surprised shouts. Fenris reacted first, his hand moving towards his training sword. Hawke lifted her staff, then cursed to herself when she remembered it was little more than a large stick.

“Enough!” Cullen’s voice rang out. He appeared out of the corner of Hawke’s vision, pushing apart a Templar and a mage that had nearly crossed weapons. “Stand down, _stand_ down!”

“Knight Captain—!” the Templar before her spoke around a gasp.

“That is _not_ my title,” Cullen snapped at him. “And we are _no longer_ part of the Order.”

Hawke blinked, momentarily blindsided. Did he just…? She recovered quickly with, “Yes, Commander, please control your subordinates.” She leaned on her staff. “They’re a little too at ease drawing blades on mages.”

Cullen grimaced, looked away from her with a pinched expression. Perhaps she was being a little unfair, by putting him on the spot with everyone waiting for him to take a side. She’d been in that position before, and it wasn’t pleasant.

Or, maybe, this could be a small revenge for her.

Instead, Cullen took the third option. “All of you, back to your duties,” he ordered, pinning both the lead Templar and the lead mage with a hard, authoritative look. “We will accomplish nothing fighting amongst each other. We’re all apart of the Inquisition now, _act_ like it.”

Hawke crossed her arms as the crowd slowly dispersed, annoyed mumbles and mutters fading as they went.

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of what looked to be Roderick, probably sulking about searching for an opportunity to insert himself in the conflict. She turned her head to see him leave with the Templars. He was already chatting with the one that nearly drew his sword. Of course he was. She huffed to herself and pulled her attention back to what was before her.

Cullen glanced at her, hesitating a moment before giving her a curt nod. “I appreciate you defending the mages, Champion,” he said. “Still, try not to antagonize our soldiers.”

Hawke narrowed her eyes. “I did nothing of the sort,” she said, shifting her weight so her hip jutted out. “Your Templars were the ones picking a fight.”

Cullen winced. “They’re not _my_ Templars. Not anymore.”

“Regardless,” Fenris said, stepping in. “The fight was diverted. I’d say it was a success.”

Hawke looked at him, and he met her gaze, subtly jerking his head towards Cullen. She groaned, wishing she couldn’t understand his meaning. She reluctantly turned to Cullen.

“… Good job, I suppose,” she mumbled.

Cullen blinked, brows nearly disappearing into his curly hair. He recovered quickly and responded, “Thank you. You as well.”

With that, Hawke turned on her heel and walked away, towards the tavern. Varric would want to hear about this, and she needed a drink. Fenris drew up next to her, tapping the back of her hand. She glanced at him, and a smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

A sudden realization struck her, as though she’d screwed up with her lightning spells. Fenris would lead this Inquisition, whether he’d have a title or not. She’d already known this, but just now, when he mediated her squabble with Cullen, he’d done so well she hadn’t even _noticed._ And she followed without question. This is what he’d be doing from here on. And soon, with many more people.

What’s more, Fenris would be a much, much better leader than she ever was.

Hawke looked away, schooling her expression so Fenris wouldn’t see the fear broiling in her gut. She really, _truly_ needed a drink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (before anyone asks where Bean went, i have no clue. he's probably chilling with Varric.)
> 
> Hope you liked it!


	8. Arrow to the (knee) Leg

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An injured Hawke is a cranky Hawke

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay I keep trying to get to the juicy actiony bits but my hands are determined to keep a slower pace. Stay with me, y'all.

Clouds drifted slowly through the crisp, blue sky, casting shadows across the distant hills. A few clumps of white passed right in front of the blighted, twisting hole, carved into the sky as though it had always been there.

The Breach, Fenris decided, as he stared into the heavens, was an ugly thing. The way it shimmered with an unnatural green, pulsing like it had a heartbeat of its own. It made his skin crawl. He looked down at his gloved hand. Even through the thick, black leather, he could just make out the faint, sickly glow.

Curse this magic, and curse whatever—or _whom_ ever—brought about its existence. There were whispers that it was the Maker’s doing, another one of his punishments upon mankind. If that were the case, Fenris would like to have a word with the Maker. Or, even better, set Hawke on him to scold his ear off with colorful, foul language. Perhaps a middle finger or two.

Fenris snorted to himself. If only.

The last time he’d closed a large rift, he’d passed out for nearly five days. The pain still lingered in his mind. He didn’t want to subject himself—or Hawke—to that again, let alone facing the enormity of the Breach. But Fenris seemed to be the only known key to their solution. Or rather, his _hand_ was. Not the first time he’d been valued for his body.

Fenris glanced at the sun. They’d be leaving for the Hinterlands around midday. He’d finished packing for the journey with a few hours to spare, and now busied himself with waiting for Hawke’s return from her errand.

_Just a quick pop over to our camp_ , she’d said, tightening the straps on her boots. _Reckon there’s still a few supplies we could use. I’ll be back before you know it._

Though he hadn’t wanted to let her go alone, he took solace in that she’d taken Bean with her. She likely needed the quiet more than they needed the supplies, if he was honest. Haven was a strange place filled with strange people. It wasn’t like Kirkwall, where everyone simply ignored you. The space would do her well.

Still, Fenris wished she’d hurry back. He’d be cross if he had to venture on this diplomatic journey without her.

In the meantime, Fenris meandered around Haven, a scrap of parchment pinched between his fingers with a list scribbled out in his unsteady writing.

At the top of the list, scratched out and re-written a few times, sat an innocent and completely useful thing, _elfroot_. It was a suitable addition to any supply list, and shouldn’t even really be questioned. In fact, it _should_ be packed as a basic first aid remedy.

And here Fenris was, questioning it, as his markings simmered in his skin.

Anyone would tell him that elfroot was an excellent idea to soothe the irritation his marking wrought, especially if the new mark continued making it worse. And it wasn’t like he couldn’t put up with it, either. Pain from his markings wasn’t new, and he’d never required the use of elfroot to manage it.

But this—

Perhaps that was the problem. Fenris wasn’t the sort to rely on herbs, even the medicinal kind. Surely he needn’t change that aspect about himself over a little discomfort. Even if it had woken him up several times in the past week, drenched in sweat and blankets clenched in his tight grip. If that was the worst it could be, he’d be fine.

And yet, Fenris blinked and stopped in his tracks, finding that his feet had taken him to the apothecary.

He stared at the door, knowing it best that he collected what he came for. But something gave him pause. Pride, perhaps?

Hawke would laugh and simply snatch a few bundles regardless. Why couldn’t he?

“Adan has stepped out for a few hours,” a voice called to him. “He kindly asked me to inform any who might require him.”

Fenris turned to see Solas, standing outside his designated cabin, running his fingers across the wood of his door. He hadn’t even looked up from his work to address Fenris. A pinch in his brow showed deep thought.

Rather than follow up with an explanation, Fenris shook his head and stepped towards him. “Checking for termites?” he asked.

Solas glanced at him. “Merely looking over my security wards,” he responded, tapping the wood twice. It glowed briefly, illuminating a circular rune with arcane designs twisting about in it. “I like knowing when I have visitors.”

“A bell would do,” Fenris told him, flatly.

“Yes, but a bell doesn’t paralyze an unwanted guest,” Solas replied. He gave a final tap to the door before giving Fenris his full attention, a grin on his lips. “Forgive me. Is there something I can help you with?”

Fenris hesitated. A small ache flared in his markings as some sort of response. He suppressed a wince, and shook his head.

“No,” he said. “Just—wandering.”

It wasn’t truly a lie, if he at least believed in it.

Solas looked at him, the furrow in his brow reappearing. Then, he nodded. “Of course. You know where to find me, should you need anything.”

Fenris gave him a curt nod. “Thank you.”

With that, he turned on his heel and strode towards the gates. Ferelden was known for her hillsides teeming with elfroot, even in the winter. A walk around the lake should gift him with a bundle or two at the least.

Outside the village, the lake—well, pond, really—sat frozen just a few paces away. The thick ice glistened in the sun, making him squint even from this distance.

A thought—a childish, almost gleeful one—occurred to him. Elves weren’t known for their bodily weight—or, rather, lack thereof—and Fenris had never taken the time to test the stability of a frozen pond. Hawke had told him stories of how she and her siblings once tied sharpened scraps of metal to their boots and stumbled their way across the ice. Fenris had _not_ believed her, as ice was not a thing to be walked upon. It was cold, slippery, and a nuisance at best.

Fenris gave the pond a second look. Maybe—

A flurry of movement, just to the south of the pond, caught his eye. He turned his head, and his stomach dropped. His foot pushed off the ground in a force of panic.

A soldier and a civilian woman, hobbling towards the gate. Draped between them, one leg dragging bloodied and useless, was Hawke. Her head hung low, as though she tried to focus on moving her working leg. Bean followed behind them, pacing around like he wanted to help but was unsure how.

Fenris’ eyes landed on the injured leg, and his eyes widened. An arrow, through the back of her thigh. The sharpened head poked through the blood-soaked fabric of her breeches.

“What happened?” Fenris demanded as he approached.

Hawke lifted her head. She blinked at him, a weak smile struggling to show against her flushed, greenish cheeks.

“Oh, Fenris,” she said as her supports paused before Fenris. He gestured to the woman to give him Hawke’s arm. “Funny story, actually. I found these two lovebirds—” she nodded to the woman and the soldier as Fenris carefully wrapped her arm around his neck, “—snogging behind a tree. It was _so_ romantic—”

“I believe he was asking about the arrow,” the woman retorted. She gently eased Hawke’s weight onto Fenris as they continued their path to the gates.

“By the Maker, Janice, I think you’re right,” Hawke shot back, brows raised in feigned shock.

Janice huffed, but the soldier spoke up.

“There’ve been sightings of bandits patrolling this mountain,” he explained, shifting Hawke a little so he could at Fenris. “Odds are, she had a run-in with one of them.”

Fenris suppressed a sigh. Of course it would be Hawke. “Did they say who they were?”

Hawke snorted. “It’s not like they introduced themselves before they— _fuck!_ ” she hissed. Fenris looked down to see that her injured leg had brushed against a root sticking out of the ground.

“Sorry,” Fenris mumbled, then to Janice, he said, “Go find Adan, tell him to meet us at our quarters.”

Janice nodded and jogged ahead.

Hawke yelped again. Her fingers dug into Fenris’ shoulder.

“Hold you leg up,” the soldier told Hawke.

“I _told_ you, I _can’t!_ ” Hawke snapped. “Bit of an arrow in the way you bloody dunce.”

Their entrance onto Haven grounds attracted some attention. Another couple of soldiers stepped forward to assist, each of them waved away by Hawke until one particularly bold woman lifted the injured leg by the calf and carefully held it above the ground. It was the strangest sort of three-wheeled procession that hobbled on one side and swore a lot.

“I _hate_ archers,” Hawke wheezed.

Fenris wrapped his fingers around the hand she clutched his shoulder with, and lightly stroked her knuckles.

A few hobbles and many curses later, Fenris carefully lowered Hawke onto the small bed they shared. Her breath came in harsh bursts, and her fingers dug into his sleeves. She leaned back against the wall, eyes shut and jaw clenched. Bean jumped on the bed and curled up next to her, nudging her hand to lay on his head.

Fenris placed his hands on either side of her neck, his thumb running across her jaw. Her eyes opened just enough to squint through. He smiled.

“This cannot be your first arrow, Hawke,” Fenris said, taking her attention from the soldier—Pendrick, was his name—and, hopefully, the worst of the pain.

A snort slipped past her lips. “You were _there_ for the last three,” she retorted, her voice tight and small. “And this one doesn’t hurt any less of a bitch than the others.”

Fenris blinked. He remembered each of the three occasions she mentioned, but—

“There were more?” he said, more of a flat statement than a question.

“Of course there were— _fuck!_ ” Her fingers dug deeper, pinching his skin. Bean whined, licked at uninjured leg.

The door opened, and Adan, the ever-joyful alchemist, stepped through with an armful of flasks and gauze. Ducking under his arm, of course, was Varric.

“What’d you do _this_ time, Hawke?” Varric asked, a beam of a grin on his lips as he strode inside and planted himself in front of the bed. He saw the arrow, knelt down to study it. “Ooh,” he muttered, following with a low whistle. “That’s a barbed broadhead. Gonna take some time to get out.”

Adan pushed past him, mumbling something under his breath about his job description.

Fenris turned back to Hawke. “Lay back,” he said. To Varric, “Hold her leg up.”

“You got it.”

Hawke bit back a groan as she slowly lowered herself down on the bed, her leg awkwardly propped in the air. Fenris found one of Hawke’s belts discarded on the floor. He picked it up and wound it around her leg, just above the arrow, and lightly tightened it. Hawke hissed, even as she waved away his concerns.

“Tell me about these other incidents,” Fenris said, drawing her gaze to him. Adan deposited his tools on the bedside table, murmuring to himself things Fenris didn’t bother to decipher. “How old were you the first time you were shot?”

Hawke puffed her cheeks. Perhaps it was counterintuitive to talk about prior injuries, but she exhaled slowly. “Fifteen,” she replied, voice strained. “No—sixteen? Around there.”

Adan approached, a pair of pliers and a hedge trimmer in hand. Hawke swallowed.

“Hold her still,” Adan instructed.

Fenris climbed onto the bed, careful not to jostle her. One hand, he rested on her shoulder, firm and gentle. The other gripped her hand, thumb drawing circles across her skin.

“How did it happen?” Fenris asked her. “Not this current one—when you were fifteen.”

A moment passed before she wrenched her gaze from what the alchemist was doing.

“Target practice,” Hawke answered. She turned her head until she could stubbornly stare at Bean, who kept licking the wet patch of fabric on her breeches. “I goaded Carver into a bet. Said his aim was worse with a bow than his—well, when he pissed.”

“So he shot you.”

“No on purpose. He was aiming for a tree.” She grit her teeth when Adan pinched the arrow between his fingers. “I wasn’t even that _close_ to it.” Air rushed through her nose. “Proved my point though.”

Adan lined the hedge trimmer with the arrow. A sharp crack, quickly followed by a yelp and a colorful string of curses, and the top half of the arrow fell into Varric’s waiting hands.

Adan adjusted Hawke’s leg, pushing it towards her chest for a better angle. “And now for the fun part,” he muttered.

Hawke croaked out a laugh. “If this is fun for you, you should look into some of the Qunari—er—intercourse rituals. Much more than your average bondage.”

“I do _not_ recall telling you that,” Fenris said.

“Overheard some of the Stens back in Kirkwall,” she replied, looking away as Varric and Fenris gently braced her leg. “They gossip more than a Chantry Sister.”

Varric laughed. “You and Isabela spied on them?”

“Eavesdropping and spying are two separate things—”

Conversation quickly ceased when Adan started slipping the rest of the arrow through the back of her thigh. The beginning of a scream fell from Hawke’s mouth, but she clenched her teeth together to bite it back. Her fingers bunched into the blankets around her. Bean whined.

A long moment later, the arrow was freed, and Fenris covered the wounds with clean rags and pressed down on each side while Varric started wrapping the bandages around.

Hawke’s chest heaved, but she managed to grit out a remark. “We may have to delay the trip,” she said. “Maybe by a few hours.”

Fenris gave her a flat look. “You are not going to the Hinterlands.”

“Of course I am,” she replied, peeling her eyes open to glare at him. “I can’t just stay here with _this_ lot.”

Adan looked up from his work of cleaning the pieces of the arrow. “And which lot is that?” he asked, deadpan.

“Oh hush, you like people even less than I do.”

Varric tied the bandages in a simple knot to hold them in place. “I think the elf is right,” he said. “Only a proper mage healer could get you in top shape in time. And we’re lacking in that field.” He gave Hawke a sly grin. “Looks like you’re stuck with normal, non-magical mending.”

Hawke huffed and let her head fall back onto the mattress. Bean took that as a sign to start licking her face, which she didn’t bother protesting.

Then, the door opened, and in walked Cassandra.

Hawke groaned, loud enough to be pointed. “And my day was going _so_ well.”

Cassandra ignored her as she approached the bed, taking in Hawke’s state with a frown. “What happened?” she asked.

Before anyone could answer, Hawke raised her hand, holding it above her head.

“Soldier boy was snogging on duty!” she blurted out, as though she were a tattling child. “Didn’t think he’d get caught, but he did!”

Pendrick spluttered, cheeks reddening when Cassandra looked his way. “I-I wasn’t—!” he tried. “I wasn’t on _duty_ , I have the dawn watch!”

“Ah- _hah!_ ” Hawke pointed a finger at him. “So you admit to your snoggery!”

Cassandra made a noise mixed of frustration and disgust, somewhere in the back of her throat.

Fenris took pity. “Hawke went to retrieve our supplies,” he said, looking up from where he knelt on the bed. “She was attacked. Ser Pendrick suggested it was bandits.”

Cassandra narrowed her eyes and turned to Hawke. “What did they look like?” she asked.

“If I’d _seen_ them,” Hawke replied with a snort. “I doubt I would’ve been shot—oh _blast_ it woman!” she yelped as Cassandra took the injured leg in her hands, peering at the bandages that slowly soaked in blood.

“Just the one archer?” Cassandra asked. “Did they use poison?”

“They were _behind me_ ,” Hawke bit out. “But I was blessed to have only been shot _once_ , now _please_ put my leg down.”

“If there was poison, we’d already be seeing some the effects,” Adan spoke up from the corner he’d taken up. “None so far.”

Varric picked up the broken piece of arrow with the head and held it up to Cassandra.

“Recognize it?” he asked.

Cassandra took it from him, gently setting Hawke’s leg down. Hawke let out a breath.

After a quiet moment of studying the arrowhead, turning it this way and that, Cassandra answered, “I do. But Leliana will know more.”

Varric nodded. “As far as I know, there’s only a few blacksmiths this far south that make these,” he said. “Lady Nightingale can track it from there.”

Cassandra made an affirmative noise and looked back to Hawke. “You will stay here to heal,” she told Hawke. “Since we do not know if this was random or targeted, you’ll be assigned a guard until we return. In the meantime, we’ll send a few scouts to search for the bandits.”

Hawke rolled her eyes. “A _guard?_ Can’t I just, I dunno, hitch a wagon to ride with you?”

“No.”

Fenris, quietly, was glad for the suggestion of a guard. Even if Cassandra hadn’t mentioned it, he certainly would have, regardless of Hawke’s protests. As Hawke argued more with Cassandra, Fenris leaned back until he rested against the wall. His markings pinched again.

This meant he’d have to negotiate for the Inquisition without Hawke, a prospect that only sparked dread in him. Her experience from Kirkwall couldn’t possibly be priced, from her gophering between the Viscount and the Arishok to her butting heads against Meredith. And though she possessed a tongue fouler than most, she had a knack for sweet talking nearly anyone she met.

But, then, perhaps it was safer for her in Haven.

Fenris closed his eyes. The journey would take up to a week, perhaps more. It would be the longest he spent without Hawke at his side in years.

Bean whined, echoing his thoughts.

“—alright, that’s it, crippled and in _pain_ here,” Hawke snapped, waving her arm at the room. “ _Shoo!_ ”

Cassandra narrowed her eyes, but turned to Fenris and Varric. “Be ready to leave in three hours,” she told them promptly. “Pack light.” And with that, she swept out of the room, the arrowhead still grasped in her hands.

A sigh fell from Fenris’ lips as their cabin emptied of everyone save for Varric, who gave Hawke a smile.

“Seeker will want some written reports about this,” he told her. “Think you can manage?”

Hawke sent him a baleful look. “It’s not like I’ll be doing anything for the foreseeable future. I’m going to need _ample_ amounts of elfroot though.”

“Done. Adan said he was about to restock, I’ll go see if he can brew up a tonic or two.” Varric turned to leave, but paused to look at Fenris.

The door clicked shut behind him, and they were left with only the sound of a crackling fire. Sunlight poured in through the window, making short of the noon shadows. Fenris turned to look at Hawke, who had curled on her good side to stare at the wall. Her mouth pressed into a thin line and her shoulders were stiff. Some of it could be attributed to pain, but rest…

Fenris gently laid his hand on her ankle. She didn’t respond, only closing her eyes. Still, her body relaxed, just a little.

* * *

An hour before Fenris was supposed to leave, he found himself with Hawke’s legs propped up in his lap while Bean pressed into Hawke’s side. Comfortable and quiet. She’d finally allowed herself to take the elfroot, and the stiffness from before had disappeared. Now she lightly dozed, her soft breaths soothing Fenris. A few locks of her hair fell into her face when she turned her head in her sleep. He soaked up every bit of it to save for the trip.

His markings, he’d noted, had quieted for a time, making him think that perhaps he just needed to relax. Even before the new mark, the lyrium in his marking had always been agitated by stress. Hawke could vouch, having witnessed the worst of his behavior aligning with the events surrounding it—Hadrianna came to mind before he quickly banished the thought. If he could manage his own stress, would medicine be necessary?

The list from earlier sat crumpled in his pocket. He fished around for it, careful not to move Hawke’s legs.

Each item had been crossed off, all except for the one. Fenris glanced at Hawke’s injury.

He reached for a piece of charcoal sitting on the nearby table, and drew a line through elfroot. She’d need it more than he.

 A rustling of sheets, and Fenris turned his head to see Hawke peering at him through lidded eyes.

“Got your list all done?” she asked, her voice rasped from sleep.

Fenris set aside the parchment. “All that’s left is to unpack what’s yours,” he replied.

She let her head fall back without a word. He knew the look on her face, the one that appeared neutral even as her lips turned downward. Words collected on her tongue, though she made no motion to speak them aloud. Likely the same ones he’d been thinking about as she’d slept.

He’d make a little easier for her, if he could.

“I will return,” he said, softly, running his hand across her uninjured leg. “The Hinterlands may be vast, but not far.”

“Far enough,” Hawke murmured. She shifted a little, finding a more comfortable position. “I was supposed to be there with you.”

Fenris hummed. “This will not be the only diplomatic quest we are sent on,” he said. “There will be more, if Lady Cassandra has anything to say about it.”

Hawke looked at him, an unreadable expression passing over her features. But then, it passed, and she smiled.

“Make sure you bring back a souvenir,” she told him. She reached for his hand. “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen that part of Ferelden.”

Fenris took her hand between both of his. “Of course.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They've been together in almost every scene so I feel like Fenris needs to shine away from Hawke for a little bit. Don't worry, they'll be back soon.


	9. It Was Only a Walk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke has difficulty adjusting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter kicked my ass, enjoy

The days Hawke spent in forced bedrest were long and _dull._ Even the books she’d bullied her new guard into fetching —Peige MacGill’Onaidh, what a _wonderful_ name—became a chore to read. Not that it wasn’t a chore in the first place, given that the most interesting of the bunch was the History of Antivan Wines. Fenris might’ve liked that one.

Hawke sighed to herself. Even now, when she could limp around with a hastily-made crutch, she could only think about Fenris. Where was he now, she wondered. Was he hungry? Had he gotten enough sleep? The bitter cold of Ferelden suited him ill, and the constant dampness of the cold ground even more so. While Hawke herself hadn’t felt Ferelden’s chill in some time, the southern winds that tasted of mountains felt to her like she’d taken her first breath in years. But for Fenris, child of the Seheron jungles, the cold leeched his strength and stole the air from his lungs.

She looked across the frozen pond from where she sat upon the rotting pier. Her fingers played along the rough lines of her crutch.

The bed they shared was far too small for two people. But, now, the empty space seemed to swallow her like a cold bath. Bean, at least, made up some of the warmth Fenris had taken with him. But it’s not like Bean could wrap his massive paws around her as they slept, or stroke her hair when he thinks she’s asleep.

Five days, it’s been, and Hawke had already started pining like a maiden and wondering if her husband had enough blankets.

An eager barking drew her attention to Bean, who now slid across the ice with a pup-like glee. He lost his balance, and all four paws flew into the air with a yelp. He shook his head, tail still wagging, and looked back towards Hawke. His tail thumped harder as he let out a bark.

“Absolutely not,” Hawke told him, resting her chin in her hand. “If I fall, I’ll have _Serah_ Adan on my arse. And he’s hardly even a healer. Anders would—”

Hawke clamped her mouth shut as soon as she realized what she’d said. She swallowed back the bitter lump that had been hanging around in her throat the past few days.

Damn him. Over three years since she’d cast him from her life and he could still put a damper on her day.

Hawke shook her head. Her day was already damp. She needn’t let him bother her now.

Her thigh tensed, and a dull throb rippled from the wound. Hawke grimaced and squeezed her hands into fists. It had finally stopped bleeding, but the pain lingered. It wasn’t until after the Kirkwall Incident that she realized how much she’d taken Anders for granted. He was an arse, a fuckwit, and a few shades of spiritually unstable. But no one could ever say he wasn’t the best healer in the Free Marches. Scrapes and bruises lasted minutes under his care, and injuries that normally took weeks to heal were gone within an hour.

And before him, she’d had Bethany. Before Bethany, she’d had their father.

Now, it was just Hawke and her shitty healing spell. She let her hand hover above the wound, brows pulling together in a squint as she focused her magic in her palm. It crackled once, twice. So easily could lightning and fire spark from her fingers, yet it took all of her willpower to turn her magic into something more soothing.

A few careful breaths, and her hand glowed a faint blue. The muscles in her thigh didn’t magically knit together, but the worst of the pain faded, and her body relaxed once more.

Bean, unaware of her inner turmoil, rolled onto his back and wiggled about. His feet kicked to the sky and his tail slapped against the ice as though he were but two years old. Hawke sighed and rested her chin on her palm. “I suppose it’s been a while since you’ve seen ice,” she said. “Kirkwall only ever had muddy slush. Did you miss Ferelden?”

Bean sneezed. His tongue lolled out from his mouth as his lips pulled back into a goofy mabari grin. His tail thumped even harder.

Hawke turned her head to look across the blankets of snow, piling atop the trees like icing. Crisp was the sky, and sharp the wind that brushed through her hair.

When she and Fenris had crossed into Ferelden the first time, and her eyes beheld the vast pine forests and the great mountains far in the distance, she’d turned away to hide the swarm of emotions pushing through. Fenris had surely noticed, as he’d placed a hand on her back to gently guide her away from the docks.

The last of the Amell line, of the Hawke legacy, and she dared return home.

Perhaps, Hawke had thought, perhaps this was her punishment.

A weight on her leg, and Hawke rested her hand on the mabari head that lay there. His feet shifted on the ice, sliding away from him, but he stubbornly held steady.

“Good boy,” Hawke said, scratching behind his ear.

A whisper of boots on the wood behind her. She turned her head, and there approached Leliana, nodding her head in a brief greeting to Peige, who stood guard on the bank. Her feet almost glided across the pier, rivaling even Fenris’ grace.

Hawke turned back to the pond. “I’ve already turned in my report on Corypheus and the Temple of Dumat and what have you.” She leaned back on her hands. “If you want a more detailed version, I’m sure Varric has his lying around somewhere.”

A chuckle, like wind chimes. “That is not what I’m here,” Leliana said, standing next to her. She paused, barely long enough for Hawke to notice. “May I?”

Hawke shrugged and scooted over to make room. Leliana crouched down, letting her legs dangle over the ice.

“Firstly,” Leliana said as she looked out across the pond. “I would like to apologize for the… poor impression I gave you.” She idly fiddled with the hem of her cloak. “I wanted to see what kind of person the Champion of Kirkwall really was.”

Hawke squinted at her, unsure at first what she was talking about. There were several impressions Hawke could think of. Then, she blinked, the memory of the late-night meeting in the Chantry fluttering to mind, when Fenris had yet to wake up and Hawke had been even more short-tempered than usual.

“So you _intentionally_ pressed at my weak spots?” Hawke asked, narrowing her eyes.

Leliana nodded. “More like, I was determining what your weak spots  _are_ ," she said. "That Fenris is yours speaks quite highly of you." She leaned forward to rest her elbows on her knees. "It’s a little strange to me now, that among proud Ferelden, basic manipulation is considered bad form,” she said. “But when you’ve played the Game as long as I have, it’s merely a survival tactic.” She folded her hands and looked at Hawke. “Still, I apologize.”

Hawke looked away, towards the snowcapped mountains. The glare of the harsh white hurt her eyes. She wasn’t entirely faultless, as her metaphorical hackles were always spring-loaded, like a complex, dwarven trap. Spikes and all. And figures of authority almost always made it worse. Something about her rebellious nature, as her mother would say. It’s entirely possible that Hawke was simply… easily threatened.

But she wouldn’t tell Leliana that.

“Don’t suppose I could ask you to _not_ manipulate me, could I?” Hawke said.

“You could,” Leliana replied. “And I’d try not to. But sometimes it can be beneficial. A commander picks the words that best rallies the troops, after all.”

Hawke hummed. “Then let’s just tack on a sign that says, ‘ _Manipulate at own risk_ ’.”

Leliana laughed. “I’ll remember to pass the word on to Josephine.”

“Much appreciated.”

A yelp drew Hawke’s attention back to the pond, where Bean had once again flopped to his side. He shook his head and pawed at his ear. Alas, it wasn’t enough to stop him, for barely a heartbeat passed before he carefully got back on all fours.

Hawke watched him play, the corners of her lips twitching. She could almost imagine he was a decade younger, playing with her siblings as they scraped across ice with their handmade skates. Carver had all the elegance of a newborn hart, and he frequently found his feet flying from under him. He had been Bean’s main source of amusement in these moments. Bethany wasn’t much better, truth be told, but at least she could skate backwards for a solid five seconds.

The familiar squeeze in her chest appeared like a friend you only tolerated, but Hawke was surprised to find that it didn’t hurt nearly as much as it once did.

Even more of a surprise, Hawke noticed with a touch of suspicion, was that Leliana still sat next to her.

Hawke suppressed a sigh. “Why else are you here?”

A smile touched Leliana’s cheeks, but faded as her brow pinched just a little. She reached into a pack resting on her hip and withdrew something. Hawke leaned closer, frowning when she recognized the arrow that had pierced her thigh. The wound in question throbbed, and she tightened her fist over it.

“We were able to locate the smith that made this,” Leliana spoke, turning the arrow over in her hands. “Varric was correct, there are only a few that make this specific kind of arrow these days. It’s cheap, a little unorthodox, but effective.” Leliana nodded to her wound. “As you’ve discovered for yourself.”

Hawke’s lips quirked downward. “Alright, so how does that help us? Can the smith remember everyone he sells to?”

A loud thump drew Hawke’s eye for a moment, where Bean was wriggling across the ice like an overjoyed worm. A couple of villagers lingering near the shore pointed at him, their quiet laughter bouncing along the ice.

“There are a few possibilities as to who is behind all this,” Leliana said. “Enemy of the Champion, random bandit, rogue templar—” she held out a hand, bending a finger for each point. “Talking to the blacksmith might help narrow it down a little.”

Hawke slid her jaw to the side. Bean had gotten back to his feet and was trotting to the shore towards the villagers. He bowed in a play gesture, rump wiggling high in the air, though his front paws slid out from under him again. Still, his tail whipped back and forth furiously. The villagers gave him a few claps and tossed him bits of their lunch.

“What will you do,” Hawke asked. “When you figure out who they are?”

Leliana didn’t reply immediately, which was answer enough. More laughter from the shore carried across the pond as the villagers tried to get Bean to catch each toss. Despite his unstable footing, Bean performed admirably, jumping up and snatching the food out of the air.

When Leliana finally spoke, she said only, “We’ll gift them the regards of the Inquisition.”

* * *

 

She really shouldn’t be pushing herself just yet, but Hawke found that she was quickly tiring of Haven. Much too cramped together. Kirkwall had been as well, but its size made up for it. And before that, her family lived on farms with sizeable plots of land—cheap land, but land nonetheless. You had to plan a whole day around actually visiting neighbors.

So here Hawke was, putting space between herself and the eyes of Haven by going on a walk in the forest. A poor, less-than-thoughtful idea on a few fronts. Firstly, there were many, many roots and rocks to trip over—something she’d already achieved at least twice by now. And then, of course—

“If you’re injured or killed by another bandit,” Peige grumbled behind Hawke. “I’ll tell Lady Cassandra this ‘walk’ was your foolish idea.”

Hawke huffed without looking back. “And you wouldn’t be lying, of course,” she said cheerily, knocking a rock out of the way with the butt of her staff. “But be honest, you hardly tried to stop me, a temporary cripple.”

The response was swift and cutting. “’D’ruther fight off bandits than endure your whining.”

Hawke snickered. Varric must have picked Peige as her guard, if this was the sort of back talk she'd be getting. There was something about strong swordsmen—well, swords- _women_ —that made her feel at home. Like she was going to be nagged about noise complaints and destroyed property any moment. 

_Damn,_ Hawke missed Aveline.

She paused to lean against a tree for a moment, pretending to adjust the straps holding her bandages together. Really, she just needed a breath. Her last dose of an elfroot poultice had been some time ago. “Well, are you surprised at all?” she asked Peige. “Pretty sure there’s a book about my adventures of foolish endeavors. And yet people are _still_ disappointed.”

Up ahead, Bean buried his nose in a clump of snow, shoveling it around in search of something. He raised his head, and Hawke giggled behind her hand at the snow frosting his muzzle.

“You must not have read it,” Peige replied. She scanned the forest around them as Hawke gathered herself back up. “Varric did well painting you a mighty hero.”

This, Hawke knew. She’d read the earlier versions of his manuscript. Even now she still had trouble deciding if she liked it.

“A reader of his, hm?” Hawke said. “And what are your thoughts?”

Peige didn’t look at her, still searching between the distant trees. “Admittedly, it’s not his best work.”

_That_ startled a laugh out of Hawke.

“I’d imagine not,” she managed, her lips forming a crooked smile. “Everyone prefers the happy endings.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Hawke noticed Peige turn her head in her direction. Hawke decided she wasn’t interested in whatever expression she made. Instead, she pushed herself off the tree, patting Bean on the head as she passed.

Some time later, when the sun had just started sinking towards the horizon, Hawke picked the barest rock she could see and carefully lowered herself down. The entirety of her thigh ached. She brushed her fingers across the bandages, letting a small amount of healing magic seep into the wound.

Peige leaned against a tree, watching Bean stick his nose in some bushes. “We should head back soon,” she said, though her tone suggested it wasn’t so much of a _we should_ as a _we will_. Hawke wanted to argue, but the thought of propping her leg up on pillows and taking a long doze prodded the back of her mind and she found herself, for once, in agreement.

“Fine,” she replied. She reached into her pack for her water pouch. “I reserve the right to be carried.”

“Denied.”

“Hmph, fair enough.”

Before the mouth of the canteen touched her lips, however, Hawke’s eyes flitted towards movement among the trees. She squinted, lowering the pouch. Bean’s ears twitched, and he lifted his nose to the air, a growl crawling up his throat.

Two soldiers, then another a ways behind them, rushed through the snow-laden underbrush. Hawke scanned the forest, searching. Two, maybe three more soldiers further to the west.

“Ser Peige?” Hawke spoke, bracing her staff into the ground to heave herself up. “In your experience, what does a group of hurried soldiers tell you?”

Peige also had her eyes on her comrades, her hand drifting toward her sword reflexively, brow pinched under her helmet. “Nothing good, my lady.”

Hawke nodded. “My thoughts as well,” she said, pushing from her heel and taking careful strides in the direction of the soldiers.

Peige caught on quickly. “We really shouldn’t—”

“Doing it anyway!”

Before Peige could stop her, Hawke was already picking her way through the trees, with Bean brushing past her legs to lead the way. He let out a few warning barks, just to let the soldiers know he was coming. Hawke tried to make out what they were gawking at, uneasily wiping their brows and pointing at something above eye level. Peige’s heavy footfall was close behind her.

Finally, Hawke pushed past the soldiers, and her stomach fell when she looked up.

“Shit,” she whispered, her hand moving to her mouth.

Strung up in a tree, with bloodied ropes cutting through the skin of his wrists and ankles, was an elf. Blood dripped from his broken nose, from cuts along his arms, neck and torso, forming a dark red stain in the snow below him. There was hardly an uninjured inch of him, from what Hawke could see.

Most alarmingly, his hair was white.

This was _not_ Fenris, she told her heart as it considered bursting from her chest in a fit of panic. There weren’t any markings carved into his skin, and his jaw was much weaker. That didn’t mean it was easy to cast aside the image tearing into her mind. If she squinted, it _could_ resemble him—

Hawke shook her head and turned back to the soldiers. “Do any of you know this man?” she asked, careful to keep her voice steady. She might not have the authoritative bark that Aveline possessed, but people still seemed to snap to attention when she spoke at a certain pitch. Honestly, it was all in the diaphragm.

A mumbling chorus of no’s and shaking heads was the response she got. Still, most of the soldiers were looking at her now. A sigh broke past Hawke’s lips, and she turned to step closer to the elf.

No markings at all, not even Dalish ones. And though the clothes were ripped and stained with blood, they spoke of a commoner, and his worn boots of a farmer. But the Harvest hadn’t been that long ago, so a thriving farmer wouldn’t be as skinny as he was now. At least, in Hawke’s past experience of farming, he would’ve had at _least_ another month or two before the bounties of his crops ran out.

Peige stepped up beside her. “He looks to be a refugee, my lady,” she murmured.

Somehow, that just made it worse.

“He came here to escape bloodshed,” Hawke said. “Oh the irony—”

Hawke stopped short, her heart jumping in her throat. She leaned in, stretched her fingers as close to the man’s mouth as she could. One, two, three heartbeats of silence.

Then, her fingers warmed, just enough.

Hawke whirled around with curses on her tongue. “You blasted _fools_ didn’t even check if he was _breathing_?!” She gestured sharply at them. “Get him down, now! And you—!” she pointed to one as the rest rushed to the cut the elf’s bindings. “Go find Adan, tell him he has a new patient.” He nodded and broke into a sprint towards the village.

The rest of the soldiers, Peige included, had already managed to cut the ropes and were carefully lowering the elf to the ground. Hawke approached, scanning his body to note each injury. No missing limbs, a good start. No noticeable punctures or gashes around his vital organs. Even the many cuts looked like they’d been strategically placed where he wouldn’t bleed out all at once. Clearly, whoever was behind this wanted the man to endure a long, painful death.

Hawke picked her way through the soldiers—a few of them already making emergency patches—to kneel by his head. His face had been beaten senselessly. It was broken and swollen in so many places, it was doubtful any friends or family would recognize him at first glance—

She paused, her eyes darting to the specks and splashes of white decorating his face and ears. She hadn’t noticed them before. His hair—unnaturally stiff and cracked. She gently took a lock between her fingers. Dry crumbs of white came loose.

“Paint?” Peige echoed Hawke’s thoughts as she looked on.

Hawke nodded, her blood running cold as numb realization budded in her mind.

This wasn’t a random attack. This was a statement.

Someone was after Fenris.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm just!! wanting to start introducing the new companions!!! ack
> 
> Unrelated, but would anyone be interested in beta-ing this fic? I don't need any serious in depth critiques, just a second set of eyes to save time from staring at the documents until the words stop making sense.


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